1 


y 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 

—  PS3250 
.E92 
1892 
v.3 


library 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/whittiersworks03whit 


THE  WORKS  OF 
JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

ILLUSTRATED  WITH  STEEL  PORTRAITS 
AND  PHOTOGRAVURES 

IN  SEVEN  VOLUMES 
VOLUME  III 

9 


Mr.  Whittier  in  1855 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 
JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


IN  FOUR  VOLUMES 
VOLUME  III 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 
SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 


&etoen  $unbreb  anb  IFiftp  <&*ffc$ 
$rmttb.  jfUimfar...-..Z^.i£.  


COPYRIGHT,  1848,  1850,  1853,  1856,  1837, 
1860,  1863,  1866,  1867,  1868,  1870,  1872,  1874, 
1875, 1876, 1878,  1881, 1883, 1884,  1886,  1888, 1890, 
1891,  BY  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER, 
TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD 
&  CO.,  AND  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  1892,  BY  HOUGHTON, 
MIFFLIN  &  CO. 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CONTENTS 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS.  page 

To  William  Lloyd  Garrison   9 

toussaint  l'ouverture  .       .      .       .      .      .  11 

The  Slave-Ships   19 

Expostulation   24 

Hymn  :  "  O  Thou,  whose  presence  went  before  ' ?  29 

The  Yankee  Girl   30 

The  Hunters  of  Men   33 

Stanzas  for  the  Times   35 

Clerical  Oppressors   38 

A  Summons   40 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Shipley      .      .  .43 

The  Moral  Warfare   46 

Ritner   47 

The  Pastoral  Letter   50 

Hymn:  "0  Holy  Father!  just  and  true"  .      .  54 

The  Farewell  of  a  Virginia  Slave  Mother   .  56 

Pennsylvania  Hall   58 

The  New  Year   63 

The  Relic   69 

The  World's  Convention   72 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia   80 

—  The  Christian  Slave   86 

The  Sentence  of  John  L.  Brown  .  .  .  .89 
Texas. 

Voice  of  New  England   94 

To  Faneuil  Hall       ......  98 


4 


CONTENTS 


To  Massachusetts  .  100 

New  Hampshire  „  101 

The  Pine-Tree   102 

To  a  Southern  Statesman      .....  104 

At  Washington   106 

The  Branded  Hand  .   Ill 

The  Freed  Islands   115 

A  Letter   117 

Lines  from  a  Letter  to  a  young  Clerical  Friend  122 

Daniel  Neall   123 

Song  of  Slaves  in  the  Desert  ....  125 

To  Delaware   127 

Yorktown   128 

Randolph  of  Roanoke   131 

The  Lost  Statesman   135 

The  Slaves  of  Martinique   136 

The  Curse  of  the  Charter-Breakers      .      .  142 

P^EAN   146 

The  Crisis   148 

Lines  on  the  Portrait  of  a  Celebrated  Pub- 
lisher   153 

Derne   155 

A  Sabbath  Scene   159 

In  the  Evil  Day   163 

Moloch  in  State  Street   165 

Official  Piety   168 

The  Rendition   170 

Arisen  at  Last   171 

The  Haschish   173 

For  Righteousness'  Sake   175 

The  Kansas  Emigrants   176 

Letter  from  a  Missionary  of  the  Methodist 
Episcopal  Church  South,  in  Kansas,  to  a  Dis- 
tinguished Politician   178 

Burial  of  Barber   181 

To  Pennsylvania   184 

Le  Marais  du  Cygne   185 

The  Pass  of  the  Sierra   187 


CONTENTS  5 

A  Song  for  the  Time   189 

What  of  the  Day  ?   191 

A  Song,  inscribed  to  the  Fremont  Clubs   .      .  192 

The  Panorama   193 

On  a  Prayer-Book   210 

The  Summons   213 

To  William  H.  Seward   214 

In  War  Time. 

To  Samuel  E.  Sewall  and  Harriet  W.  Sew- 
all    216 

Thy  Will  be  Done   217 

A  Word  for  the  Hour   218 

"  Ein  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott"       .      .  219 

To  John  C.  Fremont   222 

The  Watchers   223 

To  Englishmen   226 

Mithrddates  at  Chios   228 

At  Port  Royal      ......  230 

Astr,ea  at  the  Capitol   234 

The  Battle  Autumn  of  1862  ...  236 
Hymn  sung  at  Christmas  by  the  Scholars 

of  St.  Helena's  Island,  S.  C.      .      .      .  238 

The  Proclamation   239 

Anniversary  Poem   241 

Barbara  Frietchie   245 

What  the  Birds  said   248 

The  Mantle  of  St.  John  de  Matha  .      .  250 

Laus  Deo!   254 

Hymn  for  the  Celebration  of  Emancipation 

at  Newburyport   257 

After  the  War. 

The  Peace  Autumn   259 

To  the  Thirty-Ninth  Congress  .      .      .  261 

The  Hive  at  Gettysburg   263 

Howard  at  Atlanta   264 

The  Emancipation  Group  .....  266 

The  Jubilee  Singers   268 

Garrison   269 


6 


CONTENTS 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM. 

The  Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time  ....  271 

Democracy   .      .  272 

The  Gallows   275 

Seed-Time  and  Harvest   278 

To  the  Reformers  of  England    ....  280 

The  Human  Sacrifice   282 

Songs  of  Labor. 

Dedication   289 

The  Shoemakers   291 

The  Fishermen   294 

The  Lumbermen   297 

The  Ship-Builders  ......  302 

The  Drovers   304 

The  Huskers   .   308 

The  Reformer   314 

The  Peace  Convention  at  Brussels  .      .      .  318 

The  Prisoner  for  Debt   321 

The  Christian  Tourists   324 

The  Men  of  Old   326 

To  Pius  IX   329 

Calef  in  Boston   332 

Our  State   333 

The  Prisoners  of  Naples   335 

The  Peace  of  Europe  ......  337 

AsTRiEA .   339 

The  Disenthralled   340 

The  Poor  Voter  on  Election  Day       .      .      .  342 

The  Dream  of  Pio  Nono   343 

The  Voices   345 

The  New  Exodus   348 

The  Conquest  of  Finland   350 

The  Eve  of  Election   353 

From  Perugia   356 

Italy     .    360 

Freedom  in  Brazil   361 


CONTENTS  7 

After  Election   363 

Disarmament   365 

The  Problem   366 

Our  Country   367 

On  the  Big  Horn   371 

NOTES   375 


Note.  —  The  frontispiece  was  engraved  by  J.  A.  J.  Wilcox 
in  1888,  from  a  photograph  taken  by  Southworth  and  Hawes, 
Boston,  about  1855. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  at  the  Age  of  48.  En- 
graved on  Steel,  by  J.  A.  J.  Wilcox     .    .    .  Frontispiece 

The  Slave-Ships  M.  J.  Burns    ....  22 

The  Hunters  of  Men  .  .  .  .  W.  A.  McCullough .  .  34 
The  Kansas  Emigrants    .    .    .    Frederic  Remington    .  1*76 

Barbara  Frietchte  Alfred  Kappes  .    .    .  246 

The  Emancipation  Group     .    .    Thomas  Ball  ....  266 

The  Fishermen  M.  J.  Burns   ....  294 

The  Ship-Builders  M.  J.  Burns   ....  302 

On  the  Big  Horn  Frederic  Remington    .  372 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


TO  WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON. 

Champion  of  those  who  groan  beneath 

Oppression's  iron  hand : 
In  view  of  penury,  hate,  and  death, 

I  see  thee  fearless  stand. 
Still  bearing  up  thy  lofty  brow, 

In  the  steadfast  strength  of  truth, 
In  manhood  sealing  well  the  vow 

And  promise  of  thy  youth. 

Go  on,  for  thou  hast  chosen  well ; 

On  in  the  strength  of  God  ! 
Long  as  one  human  heart  shall  swell 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  rod. 
Speak  in  a  slumbering  nation's  ear, 

As  thou  hast  ever  spoken, 
Until  the  dead  in  sin  shall  hear, 

The  fetter's  link  be  broken  ! 

I  love  thee  with  a  brother's  love, 

I  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 

The  cloud  of  human  ill. 


10  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer  thine, 

And  echo  back  thy  words, 
As  leaps  the  warrior's  at  the  shine 

And  flash  of  kindred  swords ! 

They  tell  me  thou  art  rash  and  vain, 

A  searcher  after  fame  ; 
That  thou  art  striving  but  to  gain 

A  long-enduring  name ; 
That  thou  hast  nerved  the  Afric's  hand 

And  steeled  the  Afric's  heart, 
To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart. 

Have  I  not  known  thee  well,  and  read 

Thy  mighty  purpose  long  ? 
And  watched  the  trials  which  have  made 

Thy  human  spirit  strong  ? 
And  shall  the  slanderer's  demon  breath 

Avail  with  one  like  me, 
To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 

And  earnest  truat  in  thee  ? 

Go  on,  the  dagger's  point  may  glare 

Amid  thy  pathway's  gloom ; 
The  fate  which  sternly  threatens  there 

Is  glorious  martyrdom ! 
Then  onward  with  a  martyr's  zeal ; 

And  wait  thy  sure  reward 
When  man  to  man  no  more  shall  kneel, 

And  God  alone  be  Lord  ! 

1832. 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE  11 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  the  black  chieftain  of  Hayti,  was  a 
slave  on  the  plantation  "de  Libertas,"  belonging  to  M.  Bayou. 
When  the  rising  of  the  negroes  took  place,  in  1791,  Toussaint  re- 
fused to  join  them  until  he  had  aided  M.  Bayou  and  his  family 
to  escape  to  Baltimore.  The  white  man  had  discovered  in  Tous- 
saint many  noble  qualities,  and  had  instructed  him  in  some  of  the 
first  branches  of  education ;  and  the  preservation  of  his  life  was 
owing  to  the  negro's  gratitude  for  this  kindness. 

In  1797,  Toussaint  L'Ouverture  was  appointed,  by  the  French 
government,  General-in-Chief  of  the  armies  of  St.  Domingo,  and, 
as  such,  signed  the  Convention  with  General  Maitland  for  the  evac- 
uation of  the  island  by  the  British.  From  this  period,  until  1801, 
the  island,  under  the  government  of  Toussaint,  was  happy,  tran- 
quil, and  prosperous.  The  miserable  attempt  of  Napoleon  to  re- 
establish slavery  in  St.  Domingo,  although  it  failed  of  its  intended 
object,  proved  fatal  to  the  negro  chieftain.  Treacherously  seized 
by  Leclerc,  he  was  hurried  on  board  a  vessel  by  night,  and  con- 
veyed to  France,  where  he  was  confined  in  a  cold  subterranean 
dungeon,  at  Besancon,  where,  in  April,  1803,  he  died.  The  treat- 
ment of  Toussaint  finds  a  parallel  only  in  the  murder  of  the  Duke 
D'Enghien.  It  was  the  remark  of  Godwin,  in  his  Lectures,  that 
the  West  India  Islands,  since  their  first  discovery  by  Columbus, 
could  not  boast  of  a  single  name  which  deserves  comparison  with 
that  of  Toussaint  L'Ouverture. 

'T  was  night.    The  tranquil  moonlight  smile 
With  which  Heaven  dreams  of  Earth,  shed  down 

Its  beauty  on  the  Indian  isle,  — 

On  broad  green  field  and  white-walled  town ; 

And  inland  waste  of  rock  and  wood, 

In  searching  sunshine,  wild  and  rude, 

Rose,  mellowed  through  the  silver  gleam, 

Soft  as  the  landscape  of  a  dream. 

All  motionless  and  dewy  wet, 

Tree,  vine,  and  flower  in  shadow  met : 

The  myrtle  with  its  snowy  bloom, 

Crossing  the  nightshade's  solemn  gloom,  — 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

The  white  cecropia's  silver  rind 
Relieved  by  deeper  green  behind, 
The  orange  with  its  fruit  of  gold, 
The  lithe  paullinia's  verdant  fold, 
The  passion-flower,  with  symbol  holy5 
Twining  its  tendrils  long  and  lowly, 
The  rhexias  dark,  and  cassia  tall, 
And  proudly  rising  over  all, 
The  kingly  palm's  imperial  stem, 
Crowned  with  its  leafy  diadem, 
Star-like,  beneath  whose  sombre  shade, 
The  fiery- winged  cucullo  played ! 

How  lovely  was  thine  aspect,  then, 
Fair  island  of  the  Western  Sea  ! 
Lavish  of  beauty,  even  when 
Thy  brutes  were  happier  than  thy  men, 

For  they,  at  least,  were  free ! 
Regardless  of  thy  glorious  clime, 

Unmindful  of  thy  soil  of  flowers, 
The  toiling  negro  sighed,  that  Time 

No  faster  sped  his  hours. 
For,  by  the  dewy  moonlight  still, 
He  fed  the  weary-turning  mill, 
Or  bent  him  in  the  chill  morass, 
To  pluck  the  long  and  tangled  grass, 
And  hear  above  his  scar-worn  back 
The  heavy  slave-whip's  frequent  crack : 
While  in  his  heart  one  evil  thought 
In  solitary  madness  wrought, 
One  baleful  fire  surviving  still 

The  quenching  of  the  immortal  mind, 
One  sterner  passion  of  his  kind, 


T0USSA1NT  UOUVERTURE 


Which  even  fetters  could  not  kill, 
The  savage  hope,  to  deal,  erelong, 
A  vengeance  bitterer  than  his  wrong ! 

Hark  to  that  cry  !  long,  loud,  and  shrill, 
From  field  and  forest,  rock  and  hill, 
Thrilling  and  horrible  it  rang, 

Around,  beneath,  above  ; 
The  wild  beast  from  his  cavern  sprang. 

The  wild  bird  from  her  grove ! 
Nor  fear,  nor  joy,  nor  agony 
Were  mingled  in  that  midnight  cry ; 
But  like  the  lion's  growl  of  wrath, 
When  falls  that  hunter  in  his  path 
Whose  barbed  arrow,  deeply  set, 
Is  rankling  in  his  bosom  yet, 
It  told  of  hate,  full,  deep,  and  strong, 
Of  vengeance  kindling  out  of  wrong  ; 
It  was  as  if  the  crimes  of  years  — 
The  unrequited  toil,  the  tears, 
The  shame  and  hate,  which  liken  well 
Earth's  garden  to  the  nether  hell  — 
Had  found  in  nature's  self  a  tongue, 
On  which  the  gathered  horror  hung  ; 
As  if  from  cliff,  and  stream,  and  glen 
Burst  on  the  startled  ears  of  men 
That  voice  which  rises  unto  God, 
Solemn  and  stern,  —  the  cry  of  blood  ! 
It  ceased,  and  all  was  still  once  more, 
Save  ocean  chafing  on  his  shore, 
The  sighing  of  the  wind  between 
The  broad  banana's  leaves  of  green, 
Or  bough  by  restless  plumage  shook, 
Or  murmuring  voice  of  mountain  brook. 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

Brief  was  the  silence.    Once  again 

Pealed  to  the  skies  that  frantic  yell, 
Glowed  on  the  heavens  a  fiery  stain, 

And  flashes  rose  and  fell ; 
And  painted  on  the  blood-red  sky, 
Dark,  naked  arms  were  tossed  on  high ; 
And,  round  the  white  man's  lordly  hall, 

Trod,  fierce  and  free,  the  brute  he  made ; 
And  those  who  crept  along  the  wall, 
And  answered  to  his  lightest  call 

"With  more  than  spaniel  dread, 
The  creatures  of  his  lawless  beck, 
Were  trampling  on  his  very  neck  ! 
And  on  the  night-air,  wild  and  clear, 
Rose  woman's  shriek  of  more  than  fear ; 
For  bloodied  arms  were  round  her  thrown, 
And  dark  cheeks  pressed  against  her  own ! 

Then,  injured  Afric  !  for  the  shame 
Of  thy  own  daughters,  vengeance  came 
Full  on  the  scornful  hearts  of  those, 
Who  mocked  thee  in  thy  nameless  woes, 
And  to  thy  hapless  children  gave 
One  choice,  —  pollution  or  the  grave ! 

Where  then  was  he  whose  fiery  zeal 
Had  taught  the  trampled  heart  to  feel, 
Until  despair  itself  grew  strong, 
And  vengeance  fed  its  torch  from  wrong  ? 
Now,  when  the  thunderbolt  is  speeding  ; 
Now,  when  oppression's  heart  is  bleeding ; 
Now,  when  the  latent  curse  of  Time 
Is  raining  down  in  fire  and  blood, 
That  curse  which,  through  long  years  of  crime, 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE 


Has  gathered,  drop  by  drop,  its  flood,  — 
Why  strikes  he  not,  the  foremost  one, 
Where  murder's  sternest  deeds  are  done  ? 

He  stood  the  aged  palms  beneath, 

That  shadowed  o'er  his  humble  door, 
Listening,  with  half-suspended  breath, 
To  the  wild  sounds  of  fear  and  death, 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture ! 
What  marvel  that  his  heart  beat  high  ! 

The  blow  for  freedom  had  been  given, 
And  blood  had  answered  to  the  cry 

Which  Earth  sent  up  to  Heaven  ! 
What  marvel  that  a  fierce  delight 
Smiled  grimly  o'er  his  brow  of  night, 
As  groan  and  shout  and  bursting  flame 
Told  where  the  midnight  tempest  came, 
With  blood  and  fire  along  its  van, 
And  death  behind !  he  was  a  Man  ! 

Yes,  dark-souled  chieftain !  if  the  light 

Of  mild  Religion's  heavenly  ray 
Unveiled  not  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  lowlier  and  the  purer  way, 
In  which  the  Holy  Sufferer  trod, 

Meekly  amidst  the  sons  of  crime  ; 
That  calm  reliance  upon  God 

For  justice  in  His  own  good  time  ; 
That  gentleness  to  which  belongs 
Forgiveness  for  its  many  wrongs, 
Even  as  the  primal  martyr,  kneeling 
For  mercy  on  the  evil-dealing  ; 
Let  not  the  favored  white  man  name 
Thy  stern  appeal,  with  words  of  blame. 


16  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Has  he  not,  with  the  light  of  heaven 

Broadly  around  him,  made  the  same  ? 
Yea,  on  his  thousand  war-fields  striven, 

And  gloried  in  his  ghastly  shame  ? 
Kneeling  amidst  his  brother's  blood, 
To  offer  mockery  unto  God, 
As  if  the  High  and  Holy  One 
Could  smile  on  deeds  of  murder  done ! 
As  if  a  human  sacrifice 
Were  purer  in  His  holy  eyes, 
Though  offered  up  by  Christian  hands, 
Than  the  foul  rites  of  Pagan  lands  ! 


Sternly,  amidst  his  household  band, 
His  carbine  grasped  within  his  hand, 

The  white  man  stood,  prepared  and  still, 
Waiting  the  shock  of  maddened  men, 
Unchained,  and  fierce  as  tigers,  when 

The  horn  winds  through  their  caverned  hill. 
And  one  was  weeping  in  his  sight, 

The  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  isle, 
The  bride  who  seemed  but  yesternight 

Love's  fair  embodied  smile. 
And,  clinging  to  her  trembling  knee, 
Looked  up  the  form  of  infancy, 
With  tearful  glance  in  either  face 
The  secret  of  its  fear  to  trace. 

"  Ha  !  stand  or  die !  "    The  white  man's  eye 
His  steady  musket  gleamed  along, 
As  a  tall  Negro  hastened  nigh, 
With  fearless  step  and  strong. 


TOUSSAINT  VOUVERTURE  17 


"  What,  ho,  Toussaint !  "    A  moment  more, 
His  shadow  crossed  the  lighted  floor. 

"  Away  !  "  he  shouted  ;  "  fly  with  me, 
The  white  man's  bark  is  on  the  sea ; 
Her  sails  must  catch  the  seaward  wind, 
For  sudden  vengeance  sweeps  behind. 
Our  brethren  from  their  graves  have  spoken, 
The  yoke  is  spurned,  the  chain  is  broken ; 
On  all  the  hills  our  fires  are  glowing, 
Through  all  the  vales  red  blood  is  flowing ! 
No  more  the  mocking  White  shall  rest 
His  foot  upon  the  Negro's  breast ; 
No  more,  at  morn  or  eve,  shall  drip 
The  warm  blood  from  the  driver's  whip : 
Yet,  though  Toussaint  has  vengeance  sworn 
For  all  the  wrongs  his  race  have  borne, 
Though  for  each  drop  of  Negro  blood 
The  white  man's  veins  shall  pour  a  flood ; 
Not  all  alone  the  sense  of  ill 
Around  his  heart  is  lingering  still, 
Nor  deeper  can  the  white  man  feel 
The  generous  warmth  of  grateful  zeal. 
Friends  of  the  Negro  !  fly  with  me, 
The  path  is  open  to  the  sea : 
Away,  for  life  !  "    He  spoke,  and  pressed 
The  young  child  to  his  manly  breast, 
As,  headlong,  through  the  cracking  cane, 
Down  swept  the  dark  insurgent  train, 
Drunken  and  grim,  with  shout  and  yell 
Howled  through  the  dark,  like  sounds  from  hell. 

Far  out,  in  peace,  the  white  man's  sail 
Swayed  free  before  the  sunrise  gale. 

vol.  in.  2 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Cloud-like  that  island  hung  afar, 

Along  the  bright  horizon's  verge, 
O'er  which  the  curse  of  servile  war 

Rolled  its  red  torrent,  surge  on  surge ; 
And  he,  the  Negro  champion,  where 

In  the  fierce  tumult  struggled  he  ? 
Go  trace  him  by  the  fiery  glare 
Of  dwellings  in  the  midnight  air, 
The  yells  of  triumph  and  despair, 

The  streams  that  crimson  to  the  sea ! 

Sleep  calmly  in  thy  dungeon-tomb, 

Beneath  Besancon's  alien  sky, 
Dark  Haytien !  for  the  time  shall  come, 

Yea,  even  now  is  nigh, 
When,  everywhere,  thy  name  shall  be 
Redeemed  from  color's  infamy  ; 
And  men  shall  learn  to  speak  of  thee 
As  one  of  earth's  great  spirits,  born 
In  servitude,  and  nursed  in  scorn, 
Casting  aside  the  weary  weight 
And  fetters  of  its  low  estate, 
In  that  strong  majesty  of  soul 

Which  knows  no  color,  tongue,  or  clime, 
Which  still  hath  spurned  the  base  control 

Of  tyrants  through  all  time ! 
Far  other  hands  than  mine  may  wreathe 
The  laurel  round  thy  brow  of  death, 
And  speak  thy  praise,  as  one  whose  word 
A  thousand  fiery  spirits  stirred, 
Who  crushed  his  foeman  as  a  worm,1 
Whose  step  on  human  hearts  fell  firm : 


THE  SLAVE-SHIPS 


19 


Be  mine  the  better  task  to  find 
A  tribute  for  thy  lofty  mind, 
Amidst  whose  gloomy  vengeance  shone 
Some  milder  virtues  all  thine  own, 
Some  gleams  of  feeling  pure  and  warm, 
Like  sunshine  on  a  sky  of  storm, 
Proofs  that  the  Negro's  heart  retains 
Some  nobleness  amid  its  chains,  — 
That  kindness  to  the  wronged  is  never 

Without  its  excellent  reward, 
Holy  to  human-kind  and  ever 

Acceptable  to  God. 

1833. 


THE  SLAVE-SHIPS. 

"  That  fatal,  that  perfidious  hark, 
Built  i'  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark." 

Milton's  Lycidas. 

"The  French  ship  Le  Rodeur,  with  a  crew  of  twenty-two  men, 
and  with  one  hundred  and  sixty  negro  slaves,  sailed  from  Bonny, 
in  Africa,  April,  1819.  On  approaching  the  line,  a  terrible  mala- 
dy broke  out,  —  an  obstinate  disease  of  the  eyes,  —  contagious, 
and  altogether  beyond  the  resources  of  medicine.  It  was  aggra- 
vated by  the  scarcity  of  water  among  the  slaves  (only  half  a  wine- 
glass per  day  being  allowed  to  an  individual),  and  by  the  extreme 
impurity  of  the  air  in  which  they  breathed.  By  the  advice  of 
the  physician,  they  were  brought  upon  deck  occasionally ;  but  some 
of  the  poor  wretches,  locking  themselves  in  each  other's  arms, 
leaped  overboard,  in  the  hope,  which  so  universally  prevails 
among  them,  of  being  swiftly  transported  to  their  own  homes  in 
Africa.  To  check  this,  the  captain  ordered  several  who  were 
stopped  in  the  attempt  to  be  shot,  or  hanged,  before  their  com- 
panions. The  disease  extended  to  the  crew ;  and  one  after 
another  were  smitten  with  it,  until  only  one  remained  unaffected. 
Yet  even  this  dreadful  condition  did  not  preclude  calculation  :  to 
save  the  expense  of  supporting  slaves  rendered  unsalable,  and  to 


20 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


obtain  grounds  for  a  claim  against  the  underwriters,  thirty-six  of 
the  negroes,  having  become  blind,  were  thrown  into  the  sea  and 
drowned !  " — Speech  of  M.  Benjamin  Constant,  in  the  French  Cham- 
ber of  Deputies,  June  17,  1820. 

In  the  midst  of  their  dreadful  fears  lest  the  solitary  individual, 
whose  sight  remained  unaffected,  should  also  be  seized  with  the 
malady,  a  sail  was  discovered.  It  was  the  Spanish  slaver,  Leon. 
The  same  disease  had  been  there  ;  and,  horrible  to  tell,  all  the 
crew  had  become  blind !  Unable  to  assist  each  other,  the  vessels 
parted.  The  Spanish  ship  has  never  since  been  heard  of.  The 
Rodeur  reached  Guadaloupe  on  the  21st  of  June  ;  the  only  man 
who  had  escaped  the  disease,  and  had  thus  been  enabled  to  steer 
the  slaver  into  port,  caught  it  in  three  days  after  its  arrival.  —  Bib- 
liotheque  Ophthalmologique  for  November,  1819. 

"  All  ready  ?  "  cried  the  captain  ; 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  the  seamen  said  ; 
"  Heave  up  the  worthless  lubbers,  — 

The  dying  and  the  dead." 
Up  from  the  slave-ship's  prison 

Fierce,  bearded  heads  were  thrust : 
M  Now  let  the  sharks  look  to  it,  — 

Toss  up  the  dead  ones  first !  " 

Corpse  after  corpse  came  up,  — 

Death  had  been  busy  there ; 
Where  every  blow  is  mercy, 

Why  should  the  spoiler  spare  ? 
Corpse  after  corpse  they  cast 

Sullenly  from  the  ship, 
Yet  bloody  with  the  traces 

Of  fetter-link  and  whip. 

Gloomily  stood  the  captain, 
With  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 

With  his  cold  brow  sternly  knotted, 
And  his  iron  lip  compressed. 


THE  SLAVE-SHIPS 


"  Are  all  the  dead  dogs  over  ?  " 

Growled  through  that  matted  lip  ; 
"  The  blind  ones  are  no  better, 

Let 's  lighten  the  good  ship." 

Hark  !  from  the  ship's  dark  bosom, 

The  very  sounds  of  hell ! 
The  ringing  clank  of  iron, 

The  maniac's  short,  sharp  yell ! 
The  hoarse,  low  curse,  throat-stifled ; 

The  starving  infant's  moan, 
The  horror  of  a  breaking  heart 

Poured  through  a  mother's  groan. 

Up  from  that  loathsome  prison 

The  stricken  blind  ones  came : 
Below,  had  all  been  darkness, 

Above,  was  still  the  same. 
Yet  the  holy  breath  of  heaven 

Was  sweetly  breathing  there, 
And  the  heated  brow  of  fever 

Cooled  in  the  soft  sea  air. 

"  Overboard  with  them,  shipmates ! ,? 

Cutlass  and  dirk  were  plied  ; 
Fettered  and  blind,  one  after  one, 

Plunged  down  the  vessel's  side. 
The  sabre  smote  above, 

Beneath,  the  lean  shark  lay, 
Waiting  with  wide  and  bloody  jaw 

His  quick  and  human  prey. 

God  of  the  earth !  what  cries 
Rang  upward  unto  thee  ? 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Voices  of  agony  and  blood, 
From  ship-deck  and  from  sea. 

The  last  dull  plunge  was  heard, 
The  last  wave  caught  its  stain, 

And  the  unsated  shark  looked  up 
For  human  hearts  in  vain. 

Ked  glowed  the  western  waters, 

The  setting  sun  was  there, 
Scattering  alike  on  wave  and  cloud 

His  fiery  mesh  of  hair. 
Amidst  a  group  in  blindness, 

A  solitary  eye 
Gazed,  from  the  burdened  slaver's  deck, 

Into  that  burning  sky. 

"  A  storm,"  spoke  out  the  gazer, 

"  Is  gathering  and  at  hand  ; 
Curse  on  %  I 'd  give  my  other  eye 

For  one  firm  rood  of  land." 
And  then  he  laughed,  but  only 

His  echoed  laugh  replied, 
For  the  blinded  and  the  suffering 

Alone  were  at  his  side. 

Night  settled  on  the  waters, 

And  on  a  stormy  heaven, 
While  fiercely  on  that  lone  ship's  track 

The  thunder-gust  was  driven. 
"  A  sail !  —  thank  God,  a  sail !  " 

And  as  the  helmsman  spoke, 
Up  through  the  stormy  murmur 

A  shout  of  gladness  broke. 


The  Slave-Ships 


THE  SLAVE-SHIPS 


Down  came  the  stranger  vessel, 

Unheeding  on  her  way, 
So  near  that  on  the  slaver's  deck 

Fell  off  her  driven  spray. 
"  Ho !  for  the  love  of  mercy, 

We  're  perishing  and  blind  !  " 
A  wail  of  utter  agony 

Came  back  upon  the  wind  : 

"  Help  us  !  for  we  are  stricken 

With  blindness  every  one  ; 
Ten  days  we  've  floated  fearfully, 

Unnoting  star  or  sun. 
Our  ship 's  the  slaver  Leon,  — 

We 've  but  a  score  on  board ; 
Our  slaves  are  all  gone  over,  — 

Help,  for  the  love  of  God !  " 

On  livid  brows  of  agony 

The  broad  red  lightning  shone  ; 
But  the  roar  of  wind  and  thunder 

Stifled  the  answering  groan  ; 
Wailed  from  the  broken  waters 

A  last  despairing  cry, 
As,  kindling  in  the  stormy  light, 

The  stranger  ship  went  by. 

In  the  sunny  Guadaloupe 
A  dark-hulled  vessel  lay, 

With  a  crew  who  noted  never 
The  nightfall  or  the  day. 

The  blossom  of  the  orange 
Was  white  by  every  stream, 


24 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


And  tropic  leaf,  and  flower,  and  bird 
Were  in  the  warm  sunbeam. 

And  the  sky  was  bright  as  ever, 

And  the  moonlight  slept  as  well, 
On  the  palm-trees  by  the  hillside, 

And  the  streamlet  of  the  dell : 
And  the  glances  of  the  Creole 

Were  still  as  archly  deep, 
And  her  smiles  as  full  as  ever 

Of  passion  and  of  sleep. 

But  vain  were  bird  and  blossom, 

The  green  earth  and  the  sky, 
And  the  smile  of  human  faces, 

To  the  slaver's  darkened  eye ; 
At  the  breaking  of  the  morning, 

At  the  star-lit  evening  time, 
O'er  a  world  of  light  and  beauty 

Fell  the  blackness  of  his  crime. 

1834. 

EXPOSTULATION. 

Dr.  Charles  Follen,  a  German  patriot,  who  had  come  to  Amer- 
ica for  the  freedom  which  was  denied  him  in  his  native  land, 
allied  himself  with  the  abolitionists,  and  at  a  convention  of  dele- 
gates from  all  the  anti-slavery  organizations  in  New  England, 
held  at  Boston  in  May,  1834,  was  chairman  of  a  committee  to  pre- 
pare an  address  to  the  people  of  New  England.  Toward  the  close 
of  the  address  occurred  the  passage  which  suggested  these  lines. 

44  The  despotism  which  our  fathers  could  not  bear  in  their  na- 
tive country  is  expiring,  and  the  sword  of  justice  in  her  reformed 
hands  has  applied  its  exterminating  edge  to  slavery.  Shall  the 
United  States  —  the  free  United  States,  which  could  not  bear  the 


EXPOSTULATION 


25 


bonds  of  a  king  —  cradle  the  bondage  which  a  king  is  abolishing  ? 
Shall  a  Republic  be  less  free  than  a  Monarchy  ?  Shall  we,  in  the 
vigor  and  buoyancy  of  our  manhood,  be  less  energetic  in  righteous- 
ness than  a  kingdom  in  its  age  ?  "  — Dr.  Fallen?  s  Address. 

"Genius  of  America! — Spirit  of  our  free  institutions!  — 
where  art  thou  ?  How  art  thou  fallen,  O  Lucifer !  son  of  the 
morning,  —  how  art  thou  fallen  from  Heaven !  Hell  from  be- 
neath is  moved  for  thee,  to  meet  thee  at  thy  coming !  The 
kings  of  the  earth  cry  out  to  thee,  Aha !  Aha !  Art  thou  be- 
come like  unto  us  ?  "  —  Speech  of  Samuel  J.  May. 

Our,  fellow-countrymen  in  chains ! 

Slaves,  in  a  land  of  light  and  law ! 
Slaves,  crouching  on  the  very  plains 

Where  rolled  the  storm  of  Freedom's  war ! 
A  groan  from  Eutaw's  haunted  wood, 

A  wail  where  Camden's  martyrs  fell, 
By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 

From  Moultrie's  wall  and  J asper's  well ! 

By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot, 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 
Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 

And  hurrying  shout  of  Marion's  men ! 
The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there, 

The  falling  lash,  the  fetter's  clank  ! 
Slaves,  slaves  are  breathing  in  that  air 

Which  old  De  Kalb  and  Sumter  drank ! 

What,  ho !  our  countrymen  in  chains  ! 

The  whip  on  woman's  shrinking  flesh ! 
Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains 

Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm  and  fresh ! 
What !  mothers  from  their  children  riven ! 

What !  God's  own  image  bought  and  sold  ! 
Americans  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold  ! 


26 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Speak !  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 

Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain  ? 
To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 

The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain  ; 
To  us,  whose  Boast  is  loud  and  long 

Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light ; 
Say,  shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong 

Plead  vainly  for  their  plundered  Right  ? 

What !  shall  we  send,  with  lavish  breath, 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 
Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom  or  a  grave  ? 
Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be  sung 

For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  spurning, 
And  millions  hail  with  pen  and  tongue 

Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning  ? 

Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By  Vendome's  pile  and  Schoenbrun's  wall, 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance, 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call  ? 
And  shall  the  slave,  beneath  our  eye, 

Clank  o'er  our  fields  his  hateful  chain  ? 
And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 

And  groan  for  Freedom's  gift,  in  vain  ? 

Oh,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 
A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave  ? 

And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 
By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave  ? 

And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 
Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 


EXPOSTULATION 

And  bid  his  bondmen  cast  the  chain 
From  fettered  soul  and  limb  aside  ? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 

Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free, 
From  farthest  Ind  to  each  blue  crag 

That  beetles  o'er  the  Western  Sea  ? 
And  shall  we  scoff  at  Europe's  kings, 

When  Freedom's  fire  is  dim  with  us, 
And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 

The  damning  shade  of  Slavery's  curse  ? 

Go,  let  us  ask  of  Constantine 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland's  throat ; 
And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote; 
Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From  turbaned  Turk,  and  scornful  Russ : 
"  Go,  loose  your  fettered  slaves  at  home, 

Then  turn,  and  ask  the  like  of  us !  " 

J ust  God !  and  shall  we  calmly  rest, 

The  Christian's  scorn,  the  heathen's  mirth, 
Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  by- word  of  a  mocking  Earth  ? 
Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 

That  curse  which  Europe  scorns  to  bear  ? 
Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain 

Which  not  even  Russia's  menials  wear  ? 

Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part, 
From  graybeard  eld  to  fiery  youth. 

And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 
Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth ! 


28  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Up  !  while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 
The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing ! 

Up !  while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 
In  blood,  around  our  altars  flowing ! 

Oh !  rouse  ye,  ere  the  storm  comes  forth, 

The  gathered  wrath  of  God  and  man, 
Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 
Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air  ? 

Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath  ? 
Up,  up !  why  will  ye  slumber  where 

The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death? 

Rise  now  for  Freedom !  not  in  strife 

Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw, 
The  awful  waste  of  human  life, 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war : 
But  break  the  chain,  the  yoke  remove, 

And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod, 
With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and  Love, 

Made  mighty  through  the  living  God ! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood ; 
Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood ; 
But  rear  another  altar  there, 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given, 
And  Freedom's  gift,  and  Freedom's  prayer, 

Shall  call  an  answer  down  from  Heaven  I 
1834. 


HYMN 


29 


HYMN. 

Written  for  the  meeting"  of  the  Anti-Slavery  Society,  at  Chat- 
ham Street  Chapel,  New  York,  held  on  the  4th  of  the  seventh 
month,  1834. 

O  Thou,  whose  presence  went  before 
Our  fathers  in  their  weary  way, 

As  with  Thy  chosen  moved  of  yore 
The  fire  by  night,  the  cloud  by  day ! 

When  from  each  temple  of  the  free, 
A  nation's  song  ascends  to  Heaven, 

Most  Holy  Father !  unto  Thee 

May  not  our  humble  prayer  be  given  ? 

Thy  children  all,  though  hue  and  form 
Are  varied  in  Thine  own  good  will, 

With  Thy  own  holy  breathings  warm, 
And  fashioned  in  Thine  image  still. 

We  thank  Thee,  Father !  hill  and  plain 
Around  us  wave  their  fruits  once  more, 

And  clustered  vine,  and  blossomed  grain, 
Are  bending  round  each  cottage  door. 

And  peace  is  here  ;  and  hope  and  love 
Are  round  us  as  a  mantle  thrown, 

And  unto  Thee,  supreme  above, 
The  knee  of  prayer  is  bowed  alone. 

But  oh,  for  those  this  day  can  bring, 
As  unto  us,  no  joyful  thrill ; 


30 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


For  those  who,  under  Freedom's  wing, 
Are  bound  in  Slavery's  fetters  still : 

For  those  to  whom  Thy  written  word 
Of  light  and  love  is  never  given  ; 

For  those  whose  ears  have  never  heard 
The  promise  and  the  hope  of  heaven ! 

For  broken  heart,  and  clouded  mind, 
Whereon  no  human  mercies  fall ; 

Oh,  be  Thy  gracious  love  inclined, 
Who,  as  a  Father,  pitiest  all ! 

And  grant,  O  Father !  that  the  time 
Of  Earth's  deliverance  may  be  near, 

When  every  land  and  tongue  and  clime 
The  message  of  Thy  love  shall  hear  ; 

When,  smitten  as  with  fire  from  heaven, 
The  captive's  chain  shall  sink  in  dust, 

And  to  his  fettered  soul  be  given 
The  glorious  freedom  of  the  just ! 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL. 

She  sings  by  her  wheel  at  that  low  cottage-door, 
Which  the  long  evening  shadow  is  stretching  be- 
fore, 

With  a  music  as  sweet  as  the  music  which  seems 
Breathed  softly  and  faint  in  the  ear  of  our  dreams  ! 

How  brilliant  and  mirthful  the  light  of  her  eye, 
Like  a  star  glancing  out  from  the  blue  of  the  sky ! 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL 


31 


And  lightly  and  freely  her  dark  tresses  play 
O'er  a  brow  and  a  bosom  as  lovely  as  they ! 

Who  comes  in  his  pride  to  that  low  cottage-door, 
The  haughty  and  rich  to  the  humble  and  poor  ? 
'T  is  the  great  Southern  planter,  the  master  who 
waves 

His  whip  of  dominion  o'er  hundreds  of  slaves. 

"  Nay,  Ellen,  for  shame  !    Let  those  Yankee  fools 
spin, 

Who  would  pass  for  our  slaves  with  a  change  of 
their  skin ; 

Let  them  toil  as  they  will  at  the  loom  or  the  wheel, 
Too  stupid  for  shame,  and  too  vulgar  to  feel ! 

"  But  thou  art  too  lovely  and  precious  a  gem 
To  be  bound  to  their  burdens  and  sullied  by 
them ; 

For  shame,  Ellen,  shame,  cast  thy  bondage  aside, 
And  away  to  the  South,  as  my  blessing  and  pride. 

"  Oh,  come  where  no  winter  thy  footsteps  can 
wrong, 

But  where  flowers  are  blossoming  all  the  year 
long, 

Where  the  shade  of  the  palm-tree  is  over  my  home, 
And  the  lemon  and  orange  are  white  in  their 
bloom ! 

"  Oh,  come  to  my  home,  where  my  servants  shall 
all 

Depart  at  thy  bidding  and  come  at  thy  call ; 


32  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

They  shall  heed  thee  as  mistress  with  trembling 
and  awe, 

And  each  wish  of  thy  heart  shall  be  felt  as  a  law." 

Oh,  could  ye  have  seen  her  —  that  pride  of  our 
girls  — 

Arise  and  cast  back  the  dark  wealth  of  her  curls, 
With  a  scorn  in  her  eye  which  the  gazer  could 
feel, 

And  a  glance  like  the  sunshine  that  flashes  on 
steel ! 

"  Go  back,  haughty  Southron !  thy  treasures  of 
gold 

Are  dim  with  the  blood  of  the  hearts  thou  hast 
sold ; 

Thy  home  may  be  lovely,  but  round  it  I  hear 
The  crack  of  the  whip  and  the  footsteps  of  fear ! 

"  And  the  sky  of  thy  South  may  be  brighter  than 
ours, 

And  greener  thy  landscapes,  and  fairer  thy  flow- 
ers ; 

But  dearer  the  blast  round  our  mountains  which 
raves, 

Than  the  sweet  summer  zephyr  which  breathes  over 
slaves ! 

"  Full  low  at  thy  bidding  thy  negroes  may  kneel, 
With  the  iron  of  bondage  on  spirit  and  heel ; 
Yet  know  that  the  Yankee  girl  sooner  would  be 
In  fetters  with  them,  than  in  freedom  with  thee  !  " 
1835. 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEN  33 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEN. 

These  lines  were  written  when  the  orators  of  the  American 
Colonization  Society  were  demanding-  that  the  free  blacks  should 
be  sent  to  Africa,  and  opposing-  Emancipation  unless  expatriation 
followed.  See  the  report  of  the  proceedings  of  the  society  at  its 
annual  meeting  in  1834. 

Have  ye  heard  of  our  hunting,  o'er  mountain  and 
glen, 

Through  cane-brake  and  forest,  —  the  hunting  of 
men  ? 

The  lords  of  our  land  to  this  hunting  have  gone, 
As  the  fox-hunter  follows  the  sound  of  the  horn ; 
Hark !  the  cheer  and  the  hallo  !  the  crack  of  the 
whip, 

And  the  yell  of  the  hound  as  he  fastens  his  grip ! 
All  blithe  are  our  hunters,  and  noble  their  match, 
Though  hundreds  are  caught,  there  are  millions  to 
catch. 

So  speed  to  their  hunting,  o'er  mountain  and  glen, 
Through  cane-brake  and  forest,  —  the  hunting  of 
men ! 

Gay  luck  to  our  hunters  !  how  nobly  they  ride 
In  the  glow  of  their  zeal,  and  the  strength  of  their 
pride ! 

The  priest  with  his  cassock  flung  back  on  the 
wind, 

Just  screening  the  politic  statesman  behind ; 
The  saint  and  the  sinner,  with  cursing  and  prayer, 
The  drunk  and  the  sober,  ride  merrily  there. 
And  woman,  kind  woman,  wife,  widow,  and  maid, 
For  the  good  of  the  hunted,  is  lending  her  aid : 

vol.  nr.  3 


34 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Her  foot 's  in  the  stirrup,  her  hand  on  the  rein, 
How  blithely  she  rides  to  the  hunting  of  men ! 

Oh,  goodly  and  grand  is  our  hunting  to  see, 
In  this  "  land  of  the  brave  and  this  home  of  the 
free." 

Priest,  warrior,  and  statesman,  from  Georgia  to 
Maine, 

All  mounting  the  saddle,  all  grasping  the  rein  ; 
Right  merrily  hunting  the  black  man,  whose  sin 
Is  the  curl  of  his  hair  and  the  hue  of  his  skin ! 
Woe,  now,  to  the  hunted  who  turns  him  at  bay ! 
Will  our  hunters  be  turned  from  their  purpose  and 
prey? 

Will  their  hearts  fail  within  them  ?  their  nerves 

tremble,  when 
All  roughly  they  ride  to  the  hunting  of  men  ? 

Ho  !  alms  for  our  hunters  !  all  weary  and  faint, 
Wax  the  curse  of  the  sinner  and  prayer  of  the 
saint. 

The  horn  is  wound  faintly,  the  echoes  are  still, 
Over  cane-brake  and  river,  and  forest  and  hill. 
Haste,  alms  for  our  hunters  !  the  hunted  once  more 
Have  turned  from  their  flight  with  their  backs  to 
the  shore  : 

What  right  have  they  here  in  the  home  of  the  white, 
Shadowed  o'er  by  our  banner  of  Freedom  and 
Right  ? 

Ho !  alms  for  the  hunters !  or  never  again 

Will  they  ride  in  their  pomp  to  the  hunting  of  men ! 

Alms,  alms  for  our  hunters !  why  will  ye  delay, 
When  their  pride  and  their  glory  are  melting  away  ? 


The  Hunters  of  Men 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES 


35 


The  parson  has  turned ;  for,  on  charge  o£  his  own, 
Who  goeth  a  warfare,  or  hunting,  alone  ? 
The  politic  statesman  looks  back  with  a  sigh, 
There  is  doubt  in  his  heart,  there  is  fear  in  his  eye. 
Oh,  haste,  lest  that  doubting  and  fear  shall  prevail, 
And  the  head  of  his  steed  take  the  place  of  the 
tail. 

Oh,  haste,  ere  he  leave  us !  for  who  will  ride  then, 
For  pleasure  or  gain,  to  the  hunting  of  men  ? 

1835. 

STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 

The  "Times"  referred  to  were  those  evil  times  of  the  pro- 
slavery  meeting  in  Faneuil  Hall,  August  21,  1835,  in  which  a 
demand  was  made  for  the  suppression  of  free  speech,  lest  it 
should  endanger  the  foundation  of  commercial  society. 

Is  this  the  land  our  fathers  loved, 

The  freedom  which  they  toiled  to  win  ? 

Is  this  the  soil  whereon  they  moved  ? 
Are  these  the  graves  they  slumber  in  ? 

Are  we  the  sons  by  whom  are  borne 

The  mantles  which  the  dead  have  worn  ? 

And  shall  we  crouch  above  these  graves, 
With  craven  soul  and  fettered  lip  ? 

Yoke  in  with  marked  and  branded  slaves, 
And  tremble  at  the  driver's  whip  ? 

Bend  to  the  earth  our  pliant  knees, 

And  speak  but  as  our  masters  please  ? 

Shall  outraged  Nature  cease  to  feel  ? 

Shall  Mercy's  tears  no  longer  flow  ? 
Shall  ruffian  threats  of  cord  and  steel, 

The  dungeon's  gloom,  the  assassin's  blow, 


36 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Turn  back  the  spirit  roused  to  save 
The  Truth,  our  Country,  and  the  Slave  ? 

Of  human  skulls  that  shrine  was  made, 
Round  which  the  priests  of  Mexico 

Before  their  loathsome  idol  prayed  ; 
Is  Freedom's  altar  fashioned  so  ? 

And  must  we  yield  to  Freedom's  God, 

As  offering  meet,  the  negro's  blood  ? 

Shall  tongues  be  mute,  when  deeds  are  wrought 
Which  well  might  shame  extremest  hell  ? 

Shall  freemen  lock  the  indignant  thought? 
Shall  Pity's  bosom  cease  to  swell  ? 

Shall  Honor  bleed  ?  —  shall  Truth  succumb  ? 

Shall  pen,  and  press,  and  soul  be  dumb  ? 

No  ;  by  each  spot  of  haunted  ground, 

Where  Freedom  weeps  her  children's  fall ; 

By  Plymouth's  rock,  and  Bunker's  mound  ; 
By  Gris wold's  stained  and  shattered  wall ; 

By  Warren's  ghost,  by  Langdon's  shade  ; 

By  all  the  memories  of  our  dead  ! 

By  their  enlarging  souls,  which  burst 
The  bands  and  fetters  round  them  set ; 

By  the  free  Pilgrim  spirit  nursed 
Within  our  inmost  bosoms,  yet, 

By  all  above,  around,  below, 

Be  ours  the  indignant  answer,  —  No  ! 

No  ;  guided  by  our  country's  laws, 

For  truth,  and  right,  and  suffering  man, 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES  37 


Be  ours  to  strive  in  Freedom's  cause, 

As  Christians  may,  as  freemen  can  ! 
Still  pouring  on  unwilling  ears 
That  truth  oppression  only  fears. 

What !  shall  we  guard  our  neighbor  still, 
While  woman  shrieks  beneath  his  rod, 

And  while  he  tramples  down  at  will 
The  image  of  a  common  God? 

Shall  watch  and  ward  be  round  him  set, 

Of  Northern  nerve  and  bayonet? 

And  shall  we  know  and  share  with  him 
The  danger  and  the  growing  shame  ? 

And  see  our  Freedom's  light  grow  dim, 

Which  should  have  filled  the  world  with 
flame  ? 

And,  writhing,  feel,  where'er  we  turn, 
A  world's  reproach  around  us  burn  ? 

Is 't  not  enough  that  this  is  borne  ? 

And  asks  our  haughty  neighbor  mere  ? 
Must  fetters  which  his  slaves  have  worn 

Clank  round  the  Yankee  farmer's  door  ? 
Must  he  be  told,  beside  his  plough, 
What  he  must  speak,  and  when,  and  how  ? 

Must  he  be  told  his  freedom  stands 
On  Slavery's  dark  foundations  strong ; 

On  breaking  hearts  and  fettered  hands, 
On  robbery,  and  crime,  and  wrong  ? 

That  all  his  fathers  taught  is  vain,  — 

That  Freedom's  emblem  is  the  chain  ? 


38  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Its  life,  its  soul,  from  slavery  drawn ! 

False,  foul,  profane  !   Go,  teach  as  well 
Of  holy  Truth  from  Falsehood  born ! 

Of  Heaven  refreshed  by  airs  from  Hell ! 
Of  Virtue  in  the  arms  of  Vice  ! 
Of  Demons  planting  Paradise ! 

Eail  on,  then,  brethren  of  the  South, 
Ye  shall  not  hear  the  truth  the  less ; 

No  seal  is  on  the  Yankee's  mouth, 
No  fetter  on  the  Yankee's  press  ! 

From  our  Green  Mountains  to  the  sea, 

One  voice  shall  thunder,  We  are  free ! 

CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS. 

In  the  report  of  the  celebrated  pro-slavery  meeting  in  Charles- 
ton, S.  C,  on  the  4th  of  the  ninth  month,  1835,  published  in  the 
Courier  of  that  city,  it  is  stated  :  "  The  clergy  of  all  denomina- 
tions attended  in  a  body,  lending  their  sanction  to  the  proceedings, 
and  adding  by  their  presence  to  the  impressive  character  of  the 
scene !  " 

Just  God  !  and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  thine  altar,  God  of  Right ! 
Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and  blessing  lay 

On  Israel's  Ark  of  light ! 

What !  preach,  and  kidnap  men  ? 
Give  thanks,  and  rob  thy  own  afflicted  poor  ? 
Talk  of  thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 

Bolt  hard  the  captive's  door  ? 

What !  servants  of  thy  own 
Merciful  Son,  who  came  to  seek  and  save 


CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS  39 


The  homeless  and  the  outcast,  fettering  down 
The  tasked  and  plundered  slave  ! 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friends  ! 
Chief  priests  and  rulers,  as  of  old,  combine ! 
Just  God  and  holy  !  is  that  church,  which  lends 

Strength  to  the  spoiler,  thine  ? 

Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment  aside,  and  rob  the  Holy  Book 
Of  those  high  words  of  truth  which  search  and 
burn 

In  warning  and  rebuke ; 

Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed  ! 
And,  in  your  tasselled  pulpits,  thank  the  Lord 
That,  from  the  toiling  bondman's  utter  need, 

Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 

How  long,  O  Lord  !  how  long 
Shall  such  a  priesthood  barter  truth  away. 
And  in  Thy  name,  for  robbery  and  wrong 

At  Thy  own  altars  pray  ? 

Is  not  Thy  hand  stretched  forth 
Visibly  in  the  heavens,  to  awe  and  smite  ? 
Shall  not  the  living  God  of  all  the  earth, 

And  heaven  above,  do  right  ? 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their  brethren  of  a  common  Father  down ! 
To  all  who  plunder  from  the  immortal  mind 

Its  bright  and  glorious  crown  ! 


40 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Woe  to  the  priesthood  !  woe 
To  those  whose  hire  is  with  the  price  of  blood ; 
Perverting,  darkening,  changing,  as  they  go, 

The  searching  truths  of  God  ! 

Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall  perish ;  and  their  very  names  shall  be 
Vile  before  all  the  people,  in  the  light 

Of  a  world's  liberty. 

Oh,  speed  the  moment  on 
When  Wrong  shall  cease,  and  Liberty  and  Love 
And  Truth  and  Right  throughout  the  earth  be 
known 
As  in  their  home  above. 
1836. 

A  SUMMONS. 

Written  on  the  adoption  of  Pinckney's  Resolutions  in  the  House 
of  Representatives,  and  the  passage  of  Calhoun's  "  Bill  for  exclud- 
ing- Papers  written  or  printed,  touching-  the  subject  of  Slavery, 
from  the  U.  S.  Post-office,"  in  the  Senate  of  the  United  States. 

Mr.  Pinckney's  resolutions  were  in  brief  that  Congress  had  no 
authority  to  interfere  in  any  way  with  slavery  in  the  States ;  that 
it  ought  not  to  interfere  with  it  in  the  District  of  Columbia,  and 
that  all  resolutions  to  that  end  should  be  laid  on  the  table  without 
printing.  Mr.  Calhoun's  bill  made  it  a  penal  offence  for  post- 
masters in  any  State,  District,  or  Territory  "  knowingly  to  deliver, 
to  any  person  whatever,  any  pamphlet,  newspaper,  handbill,  or 
other  printed  paper  or  pictorial  representation,  touching  the  sub- 
ject of  slavery,  where,  by  the  laws  of  the  said  State,  District,  or 
Territory,  their  circulation  was  prohibited." 


Men  of  the  North-land  !  where 's  the  manly  spirit 
Of  the  true-hearted  and  the  unshackled  gone  ? 


A  SUMMONS 


41 


Sons  of  old  freemen,  do  we  but  inherit 
Their  names  alone  ? 

Is  the  old  Pilgrim  spirit  quenched  within  us, 

Stoops  the  strong  manhood  of  our  souls  so  low, 
That  Mammon's  lure  or  Party's  wile  can  win  us 
To  silence  now  ? 

Now,  when  our  land  to  ruin's  brink  is  verging, 

In  God's  name,  let  us  speak  while  there  is  time  ! 
Now,  when  the  padlocks  for  our  lips  are  forging, 
Silence  is  crime  ! 

What !  shall  we  henceforth  humbly  ask  as  favors 

Eights  all  our  own  ?    In  madness  shall  we  barter, 
For  treacherous  peace,  the  freedom  Nature  gave  us, 
God  and  our  charter  ? 

Here  shall  the  statesman  forge  his  human  fetters, 

Here  the  false  jurist  human  rights  deny, 
And  in  the  church,  their  proud  and  skilled  abet- 
tors 

Make  truth  a  lie  ? 

Torture  the  pages  of  the  hallowed  Bible, 

To  sanction  crime,  and  robbery,  and  blood  ? 
And,  in  Oppression's  hateful  service,  libel 
Both  man  and  God  ? 

Shall  our  New  England  stand  erect  no  longer, 

But  stoop  in  chains  upon  her  downward  way, 
Thicker  to  gather  on  her  limbs  and  stronger 
Day  after  day  ? 


42 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Oh  no;  methinks  from  all  her  wild,  green  moun- 
tains ; 

From  valleys  where  her  slumbering  fathers  lie  ; 
From  her  blue  rivers  and  her  welling  fountains, 
And  clear,  cold  sky ; 

From  her  rough  coast,  and  isles,  which  hungry 
Ocean 

Gnaws  with  his  surges ;  from  the  fisher's  skiff, 
With  white  sail  swaying  to  the  billows'  motion 
Eound  rock  and  cliff ; 

From  the  free  fireside  of  her  unbought  farmer ; 

From  her  free  laborer  at  his  loom  and  wheel ; 
From  the  brown  smith-shop,  where,  beneath  the 
hammer, 

Rings  the  red  steel ; 

From  each  and  all,  if  God  hath  not  forsaken 

Our  land,  and  left  us  to  an  evil  choice, 
Loud  as  the  summer  thunderbolt  shall  waken 
A  People's  voice. 

Startling  and  stern!   the  Northern  winds  shall 
bear  it 

Over  Potomac's  to  St.  Mary's  wave ; 
And  buried  Freedom  shall  awake  to  hear  it 
Within  her  grave. 

Oh,  let  that  voice  go  forth  !    The  bondman  sighing 

By  Santee's  wave,  in  Mississippi's  cane, 
Shall  feel  the  hope,  within  his  bosom  dying, 
Revive  again. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  SHIPLEY  43 


Let  it  go  forth!    The  millions  who  are  gazing 

Sadly  upon  us  from  afar  shall  smile, 
And  unto  God  devout  thanksgiving  raising, 
Bless  us  the  while. 

Oh  for  your  ancient  freedom,  pure  and  holy, 

For  the  deliverance  of  a  groaning  earth, 
For  the  wronged  captive,  bleeding,  crushed,  and 
lowly, 

Let  it  go  forth  ! 

Sons  of  the  best  of  fathers  !  will  ye  falter 

With  all  they  left  ye  perilled  and  at  stake  ? 
Ho  !  once  again  on  Freedom's  holy  altar 
The  fire  awake ! 

Prayer-strengthened  for  the  trial,  come  together, 

Put  on  the  harness  for  the  moral  fight, 
And,  with  the  blessing  of  your  Heavenly  Father, 
Maintain  the  right ! 

1836. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  SHIPLEY. 

Thomas  Shipley  of  Philadelphia  was  a  lifelong-  Christian  phi- 
lanthropist, and  advocate  of  emancipation.  At  his  funeral  thou- 
sands of  colored  people  came  to  take  their  last  look  at  their  friend 
and  protector.    He  died  September  17,  1836. 

Gone  to  thy  Heavenly  Father's  rest ! 

The  flowers  of  Eden  round  thee  blowing, 
And  on  thine  ear  the  murmurs  blest 

Of  Siloa's  waters  softly  flowing  ! 


44 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Beneath  that  Tree  of  Life  which  gives 
To  all  the  earth  its  healing  leaves 
In  the  white  robe  of  angels  clad, 

And  wandering  by  that  sacred  river, 
Whose  streams  of  holiness  make  glad 

The  city  of  our  God  forever ! 

Gentlest  of  spirits  !  not  for  thee 

Our  tears  are  shed,  our  sighs  are  given ; 
Why  mourn  to  know  thou  art  a  free 

Partaker  of  the  joys  of  heaven  ? 
Finished  thy  work,  and  kept  thy  faith 
In  Christian  firmness  unto  death ; 
And  beautiful  as  sky  and  earth, 

When  autumn's  sun  is  downward  going, 
The  blessed  memory  of  thy  worth 

Around  thy  place  of  slumber  glowing ! 

But  woe  for  us  !  who  linger  still 

With  feebler  strength  and  hearts  less  lowly, 
And  minds  less  steadfast  to  the  will 

Of  Him  whose  every  work  is  holy. 
For  not  like  thine,  is  crucified 
The  spirit  of  our  human  pride  : 
And  at  the  bondman's  tale  of  woe, 

And  for  the  outcast  and  forsaken, 
Not  warm  like  thine,  but  cold  and  slow, 

Our  weaker  sympathies  awaken. 

Darkly  upon  our  struggling  way 

The  storm  of  human  hate  is  sweeping ; 

Hunted  and  branded,  and  a  prey, 

Our  watch  amidst  the  darkness  keeping, 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  SHIPLEY  45 


OK,  for  that  hidden  strength  which  can 
Nerve  unto  death  the  inner  man ! 
Oh,  for  thy  spirit,  tried  and  true, 

And  constant  in  the  hour  of  trial, 
Prepared  to  suffer,  or  to  do, 

In  meekness  and  in  self-denial. 

Oh,  for  that  spirit,  meek  and  mild, 

Derided,  spurned,  yet  uncomplaining ; 
By  man  deserted  and  reviled, 

Yet  faithful  to  its  trust  remaining. 
Still  prompt  and  resolute  to  save 
From  scourge  and  chain  the  hunted  slave ; 
Unwavering  in  the  Truth's  defence, 

Even  where  the  fires  of  Hate  were  burning, 
The  un  quailing  eye  of  innocence 

Alone  upon  the  oppressor  turning ! 

O  loved  of  thousands !  to  thy  grave, 

Sorrowing  of  heart,  thy  brethren  bore  thee. 
The  poor  man  and  the  rescued  slave 

Wept  as  the  broken  earth  closed  o'er  thee ; 
And  grateful  tears,  like  summer  rain, 
Quickened  its  dying  grass  again  ! 
And  there,  as  to  some  pilgrim-shrine, 

Shall  come  the  outcast  and  the  lowly, 
Of  gentle  deeds  and  words  of  thine 

Recalling  memories  sweet  and  holyt 

Oh,  for  the  death  the  righteous  die  ! 

An  end,  like  autumn's  day  declining, 
On  human  hearts,  as  on  the  sky, 

With  holier,  tenderer  beauty  shining  ; 


46  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


As  to  the  parting  soul  were  given 
The  radiance  of  an  opening  heaven ! 
As  if  that  pure  and  blessed  light, 

From  off  the  Eternal  altar  flowing, 
Were  bathing,  in  its  upward  flight. 

The  spirit  to  its  worship  going ! 

1836. 


THE  MORAL  WARFARE. 

When  Freedom,  on  her  natal  day, 

Within  her  war-rocked  cradle  lay, 

An  iron  race  around  her  stood, 

Baptized  her  infant  brow  in  blood ; 

And,  through  the  storm  which  round  her  swept, 

Their  constant  ward  and  watching  kept. 

Then,  where  our  quiet  herds  repose, 
The  roar  of  baleful  battle  rose, 
And  brethren  of  a  common  tongue 
To  mortal  strife  as  tigers  sprung, 
And  every  gift  on  Freedom's  shrine 
Was  man  for  beast,  and  blood  for  wine ! 

Our  fathers  to  their  graves  have  gone  ; 
Their  strife  is  past,  their  triumph  won ; 
But  sterner  trials  wait  the  race 
Which  rises  in  their  honored  place ; 
A  moral  warfare  with  the  crime 
And  folly  of  an  evil  time. 

So  let  it  be.    In  God's  own  might 
We  gird  us  for  the  coming  fight, 


RITNER 


47 


And,  strong  in  Him  whose  cause  is  ours 
In  conflict  with  unholy  powers, 
We  grasp  the  weapons  He  has  given,  — 
The  Light,  and  Truth,  and  Love  of  Heaven. 
1836. 


RITNER. 

Written  on  reading  the  Message  of  Governor  Ritner,  of  Penn- 
sylvania, 1836.  The  fact  redounds  to  the  credit  and  serves  to 
perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  independent  farmer  and  high- 
souled  statesman,  that  he  alone  of  all  the  Governors  of  the  Union 
in  1836  met  the  insulting  demands  and  menaces  of  the  South 
in  a  manner  becoming  a  freeman  and  hater  of  Slavery,  in  his 
message  to  the  Legislature  of  Pennsylvania. 

Thank  God  for  the  token  !  one  lip  is  still  free, 
One  spirit  untrammelled,  unbending  one  knee ! 
Like  the  oak  of  the  mountain,  deep-rooted  and 
firm, 

Erect,  when  the  multitude  bends  to  the  storm ; 
When  traitors  to  Freedom,  and  Honor,  and  God, 
Are  bowed  at  an  Idol  polluted  with  blood  ; 
When  the  recreant  North  has  forgotten  her  trust, 
And  the  lip  of  her  honor  is  low  in  the  dust,  — 
Thank  God,  that  one  arm  from  the  shackle  has 
broken ! 

Thank  God,  that  one  man  as  a  freeman  has  spoken ! 

O'er  thy  crags,  Alleghany,  a  blast  has  been  blown ! 
Down  thy  tide,  Susquehanna,  the  murmur  has 
gone ! 

To  the  land  of  the  South,  of  the  charter  and 
chain, 

Of  Liberty  sweetened  with  Slavery's  pain  ; 


48 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Where  the  cant  of  Democracy  dwells  on  the  lips 
Of  the  forgers  of  fetters,  and  wielders  of  whips  ! 
Where  "  chivalric  "  honor  means  really  no  more 
Than  scourging  of  women,  and  robbing  the  poor  ! 
Where  the  Moloch  of  Slavery  sitteth  on  high, 
And  the  words  which  he  utters,  are  —  Worship,  or 
die! 

Right  onward,  oh,  speed  it !    Wherever  the  blood 
Of  the  wronged  and  the  guiltless  is  crying  to  God  ; 
Wherever  a  slave  in  his  fetters  is  pining ; 
Wherever  the  lash  of  the  driver  is  twining ; 
Wherever  from  kindred,  torn  rudely  apart, 
Comes  the  sorrowful  wail  of  the  broken  of  heart ; 
Wherever  the  shackles  of  tyranny  bind, 
In  silence  and  darkness,  the  God-given  mind; 
There,  God  speed  it  onward !  its  truth  will  be  felt, 
The  bonds  shall  be  loosened,  the  iron  shall  melt ! 

And  oh,  will  the  land  where  the  free  soul  of 
Penn 

Still  lingers  and  breathes  over  mountain  and  glen  ; 
Will  the  land  where  a  Benezet's  spirit  went  forth 
To  the  peeled  and  the  meted,  and  outcast  of  Earth ; 
Where  the  words  of  the  Charter  of  Liberty  first 
From  the  soul  of  the  sage  and  the  patriot  burst ; 
Where  first  for  the  wronged  and  the  weak  of  their 
kind, 

The  Christian  and  statesman  their  efforts  com- 
bined ; 

Will  that  land  of  the  free  and  the  good  wear  a 
chain  ? 

Will  the  call  to  the  rescue  of  Freedom  be  vain  ? 


RITNER 


49 


No,  Eitner !  her  "  Friends  "  at  thy  warning  shall 
stand 

Erect  for  the  truth,  like  their  ancestral  band ; 
Forgetting  the  feuds  and  the  strife  of  past  time, 
Counting  coldness  injustice,  and  silence  a  crime  ; 
Turning  back  from  the  cavil  of  creeds,  to  unite 
Once  again  for  the  poor  in  defence  of  the  Right ; 
Breasting   calmly,  but  firmly,  the  full  tide  of 
Wrong, 

Overwhelmed,  but  not  borne  on  its  surges  along ; 
Unappalled  by  the  danger,  the  shame,  and  the 
pain, 

And  counting  each  trial  for  Truth  as  their  gain  ! 

And  that  bold-hearted  yeomanry,  honest  and  true, 
Who,  haters  of  fraud,  give  to  labor  its  due ; 
Whose  fathers,  of  old,  sang  in  concert  with  thine, 
On  the  banks  of  Swetara,  the  songs  of  the  Rhine,  — 
The  German-born  pilgrims,  who  first  dared  to 
brave 

The  scorn  of  the  proud  in  the  cause  of  the  slave ; 
Will  the  sons  of  such  men  yield  the  lords  of  the 
South 

One  brow  for  the  brand,  for  the  padlock  one 
mouth  ? 

They  cater  to  tyrants  ?    They  rivet  the  chain, 
Which  their  fathers  smote  off,  on  the  negro  again  ? 

No,  never !  one  voice,  like  the  sound  in  the  cloud, 
When  the  roar  of  the  storm  waxes  loud  and  more 
loud, 

Wherever  the  foot  of  the  freeman  hath  pressed 
From  the  Delaware's  marge  to  the  Lake  of  the 
West, 

vol.  in.  4 


50  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


On  the  South-going  breezes  shall  deepen  and  grow 
Till  the  land  it  sweeps  over  shall  tremble  below  ! 
The  voice  of  a  people,  uprisen,  awake, 
Pennsylvania's  watchword,  with  Freedom  at  stake, 
Thrilling  up  from  each  valley,  flung  down  from 
each  height, 

"  Our  Country  and    Liberty !     God  for  the 
Eight ! " 

1837. 

THE  PASTORAL  LETTER. 

The  General  Association  of  Congregational  ministers  in  Massa- 
chusetts met  at  Brookfield,  June  27,  1837,  and  issued  a  Pastoral 
Letter  to  the  churches  under  its  care.  The  immediate  occasion  of 
it  was  the  profound  sensation  produced  by  the  recent  public  lec- 
ture in  Massachusetts  by  Angelina  and  Sarah  Grimk£,  two  noble 
women  from  South  Carolina,  who  bore  their  testimony  against  sla- 
very. The  Letter  demanded  that  "  the  perplexed  and  agitating 
subjects  which  are  now  common  amongst  us  .  .  .  should  not  be 
forced  upon  any  church  as  matters  for  debate,  at  the  hazard  of 
alienation  and  division,"  and  called  attention  to  the  dangers  now 
seeming  "to  threaten  the  female  character  with  widespread  and 
permanent  injury.' ' 

So,  this  is  all,  —  the  utmost  reach 

Of  priestly  power  the  mind  to  fetter ! 
When  laymen  think,  when  women  preach, 

A  war  of  words,  a  "  Pastoral  Letter  !  " 
Now,  shame  upon  ye,  parish  Popes ! 

Was  it  thus  with  those,  your  predecessors, 
Who  sealed  with  racks,  and  fire,  and  ropes 

Their  loving-kindness  to  transgressors  ? 

A  "  Pastoral  Letter,"  grave  and  dull  ; 
Alas  !  in  hoof  and  horns  and  features, 


THE  PASTORAL  LETTER  51 


How  different  is  your  Brookfield  bull 
From  him  who  bellows  from  St.  Peter's ! 

Your  pastoral  rights  and  powers  from  harm, 
Think  ye,  can  words  alone  preserve  them  ? 

Your  wiser  fathers  taught  the  arm 

And  sword  of  temporal  power  to  serve  them. 

Oh,  glorious  days,  when  Church  and  State 

"Were  wedded  by  your  spiritual  fathers  ! 
And  on  submissive  shoulders  sat 

Your  Wilsons  and  your  Cotton  Mathers. 
No  vile  "  itinerant  "  then  could  mar 

The  beauty  of  your  tranquil  Zion, 
But  at  his  peril  of  the  scar 

Of  hangman's  whip  and  branding-iron. 

Then,  wholesome  laws  relieved  the  Church 

Of  heretic  and  mischief-maker, 
And  priest  and  bailiff  joined  in  search, 

By  turns,  of  Papist,  witch,  and  Quaker ! 
The  stocks  were  at  each  church's  door, 

The  gallows  stood  on  Boston  Common, 
A  Papist's  ears  the  pillory  bore,  — 

The  gallows-rope,  a  Quaker  woman  ! 

Your  fathers  dealt  not  as  ye  deal 

With  "  non-professing  "  frantic  teachers  ; 
They  bored  the  tongue  with  red-hot  steel, 

And  flayed  the  backs  of  "  female  preachers." 
Old  Hampton,  had  her  fields  a  tongue, 

And  Salem's  streets  could  tell  their  story, 
Of  fainting  woman  dragged  along, 

Gashed  by  the  whip  accursed  and  gory ! 


52  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


And  will  ye  ask  me,  why  this  taunt 

Of  memories  sacred  from  the  scorner  ? 
And  why  with  reckless  hand  I  plant 

A  nettle  on  the  graves  ye  honor  ? 
Not  to  reproach  New  England's  dead 

This  record  from  the  past  I  summon, 
Of  manhood  to  the  scaffold  led, 

And  suffering  and  heroic  woman. 

No,  for  yourselves  alone,  I  turn 

The  pages  of  intolerance  over, 
That,  in  their  spirit,  dark  and  stern, 

Ye  haply  may  your  own  discover  ! 
For,  if  ye  claim  the  "  pastoral  right  " 

To  silence  Freedom's  voice  of  warning, 
And  from  your  precincts  shut  the  light 

Of  Freedom's  day  around  ye  dawning ; 

If  when  an  earthquake  voice  of  power 

And  signs  in  earth  and  heaven  are  showing 
That  forth,  in  its  appointed  hour, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  going  ! 
And,  with  that  Spirit,  Freedom's  light 

On  kindred,  tongue,  and  people  breaking, 
Whose  slumbering  millions,  at  the  sight, 

In  glory  and  in  strength  are  waking ! 

"When  for  the  sighing  of  the  poor, 
And  for  the  needy,  God  hath  risen, 

And  chains  are  breaking,  and  a  door 
Is  opening  for  the  souls  in  prison ! 

If  then  ye  would,  with  puny  hands, 
Arrest  the  very  work  of  Heaven, 


THE  PASTORAL  LETTER  53 


And  bind  anew  the  evil  bands 

Which  God's  right  arm  of  power  hath  riven ; 

What  marvel  that,  in  many  a  mind, 

Those  darker  deeds  of  bigot  madness 
Are  closely  with  your  own  combined, 

Yet  "  less  in  anger  than  in  sadness  "  ? 
What  marvel,  if  the  people  learn 

To  claim  the  right  of  free  opinion  ? 
What  marvel,  if  at  times  they  spurn 

The  ancient  yoke  of  your  dominion  ? 

A  glorious  remnant  linger  yet, 

Whose  lips  are  wet  at  Freedom's  fountains, 
The  coming  of  whose  welcome  feet 

Is  beautiful  upon  our  mountains ! 
Men,  who  the  gospel  tidings  bring 

Of  Liberty  and  Love  forever, 
Whose  joy  is  an  abiding  spring, 

Whose  peace  is  as  a  gentle  river ! 

But  ye,  who  scorn  the  thrilling  tale 

Of  Carolina's  high-souled  daughters, 
Which  echoes  here  the  mournful  wail 

Of  sorrow  from  Edisto's  waters, 
Close  while  ye  may  the  public  ear, 

With  malice  vex,  with  slander  wound  them, 
The  pure  and  good  shall  throng  to  hear, 

And  tried  and  manly  hearts  surround  them. 

Oh,  ever  may  the  power  which  led 

Their  way  to  such  a  fiery  trial, 
And  strengthened  womanhood  to  tread 

The  wine-press  of  such  self-denial, 


54 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Be  round  them  in  an  evil  land, 

With  wisdom  and  with  strength  from  Heaven, 
With  Miriam's  voice,  and  Judith's  hand, 

And  Deborah's  song,  for  triumph  given ! 

And  what  are  ye  who  strive  with  God 

Against  the  ark  of  His  salvation, 
Moved  by  the  breath  of  prayer  abroad, 

With  blessings  for  a  dying  nation  ? 
What,  but  the  stubble  and  the  hay 

To  perish,  even  as  flax  consuming, 
With  all  that  bars  His  glorious  way, 

Before  the  brightness  of  His  coming  ? 

And  thou,  sad  Angel,  who  so  long 

Hast  waited  for  the  glorious  token, 
That  Earth  from  all  her  bonds  of  wrong 

To  liberty  and  light  has  broken,  — 
Angel  of  Freedom  !  soon  to  thee 

The  sounding  trumpet  shall  be  given, 
And  over  Earth's  full  jubilee 

Shall  deeper  joy  be  felt  in  Heaven ! 
1837. 


HYMN. 

Written  for  the  celebration  of  the  third  anniversary  of  British 
emancipation  at  the  Broadway  Tabernacle,  New  York,  first  of 
August,  1837. 

0  Holy  Father  !  just  and  true 

Are  all  Thy  works  and  words  and  ways, 

And  unto  Thee  alone  are  due 
Thanksgiving  and  eternal  praise  ! 


HYMN 


55 


As  children  of  Thy  gracious  care, 
We  veil  the  eye,  we  bend  the  knee, 

With  broken  words  of  praise  and  prayer, 
Father  and  God,  we  come  to  Thee. 

For  Thou  hast  heard,  O  God  of  Eight, 

The  sighing  of  the  island  slave  ; 
And  stretched  for  him  the  arm  of  might, 

Not  shortened  that  it  could  not  save. 
The  laborer  sits  beneath  his  vine, 

The  shackled  soul  and  hand  are  free  ; 
Thanksgiving  !  for  the  work  is  Thine  ! 

Praise  !  for  the  blessing  is  of  Thee ! 

And  oh,  we  feel  Thy  presence  here, 

Thy  awful  arm  in  judgment  bare ! 
Thine  eye  hath  seen  the  bondman's  tear ; 

Thine  ear  hath  heard  the  bondman's  prayer. 
Praise  !  for  the  pride  of  man  is  low, 

The  counsels  of  the  wise  are  naught, 
The  fountains  of  repentance  flow ; 

What  hath  our  God  in  mercy  wrought  ? 

Speed  on  Thy  work,  Lord  God  of  Hosts ! 

And  when  the  bondman's  chain  is  riven, 
And  swells  from  all  our  guilty  coasts 

The  anthem  of  the  free  to  Heaven, 
Oh,  not  to  those  whom  Thou  hast  led, 

As  with  Thy  cloud  and  fire  before, 
But  unto  Thee,  in  fear  and  dread, 

Be  praise  and  glory  evermore. 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


THE  FAREWELL 

A   VIRGINIA   SLAVE  MOTHER   TO    HER  DAUGHTERS 
SOLD  INTO  SOUTHERN  BONDAGE. 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 

Where  the  slave-whip  ceaseless  swings, 

Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 

Where  the  fever  demon  strews 

Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 

Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 

Through  the  hot  and  misty  air ; 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters  ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them ; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash, 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them, 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 


THE  FAREWELL 


Oh,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 
Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again, 
There  no  brother's  voice  shall  greet  them ; 
There  no  father's  welcome  meet  them. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 

From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 

On  their  childhood's  place  of  play  ; 

From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank ; 

Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank ; 

From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 

And  the  holy  counsels  there ; 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone ; 

Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 

And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey. 

Oh,  that  they  had  earlier  died, 

Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 

Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er, 

And  the  fetter  galls  no  more  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 


58  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters  ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
By  the  holy  love  He  beareth ; 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth  ; 
Oh,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 
Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 
With  a  more  than  mother's  love. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters  ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

1838. 

PENNSYLVANIA  HALL. 

Read  at  the  dedication  of  Pennsylvania  Hall,  Philadelphia, 
May  15,  1838.  The  building-  was  erected  by  an  association  of  gen- 
tlemen, irrespective  of  sect  or  party,  "  that  the  citizens  of  Phila- 
delphia should  possess  a  room  wherein  the  principles  of  Liberty, 
and  Equality  of  Civil  Rights,  could  be  freely  discussed,  and  the 
evils  of  slavery  fearlessly  portrayed."  On  the  evening  of  the 
17th  it  was  burned  by  a  mob,  destroying  the  office  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania Freeman,  of  which  I  was  editor,  and  with  it  my  books  and 
papers. 

Not  with  the  splendors  of  the  days  of  old, 
The  spoil  of  nations,  and  barbaric  gold ; 
No  weapons  wrested  from  the  fields  of  blood, 
Where  dark  and  stern  the  unyielding  Roman  stood, 
And  the  proud  eagles  of  his  cohorts  saw 
A  world,  war-wasted,  crouching  to  his  law  ; 


PENNSYLVANIA  HALL  59 


Nor  blazoned  car,  nor  banners  floating  gay, 
Like  those  which  swept  along  the  Appian  Way, 
When,  to  the  welcome  of  imperial  Rome, 
The  victor  warrior  came  in  triumph  home, 
And  trumpet  peal,  and  shoutings  wild  and  high, 
Stirred  the  blue  quiet  of  the  Italian  sky ; 
But  calm  and  grateful,  prayerful  and  sincere, 
As  Christian  freemen  only,  gathering  here, 
We  dedicate  our  fair  and  lofty  Hall, 
Pillar  and  arch,  entablature  and  wall, 
As  Virtue's  shrine,  as  Liberty's  abode, 
Sacred  to  Freedom,  and  to  Freedom's  God  ! 
Far  statelier  Halls,  'neath   brighter  skies  than 
these, 

Stood  darkly  mirrored  in  the  JEgean  seas, 
Pillar  and  shrine,  and  life-like  statues  seen, 
Graceful  and  pure,  the  marble  shafts  between  ; 
Where  glorious  Athens  from  her  rocky  hill 
Saw  Art  and  Beauty  subject  to  her  will ; 
And  the  chaste  temple,  and  the  classic  grove, 
The  hall  of  sages,  and  the  bowers  of  love, 
Arch,  fane,  and  column,  graced  the  shores,  and 
gave 

Their  shadows  to  the  blue  Saronic  wave ; 
And  statelier  rose,  on  Tiber's  winding  side, 
The  Pantheon's  dome,  the  Coliseum's  pride, 
The  Capitol,  whose  arches  backward  flung 
The  deep,  clear  cadence  of  the  Eoman  tongue, 
Whence  stern  decrees,  like  words  of  fate,  went 
forth 

To  the  awed  nations  of  a  conquered  earth, 
Where  the  proud  Csesars  in  their  glory  came, 
And  Brutus  lightened  from  his  lips  of  flame ! 


60  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Yet  in  the  porches  of  Athena's  halls, 
And  in  the  shadow  of  her  stately  walls, 
Lurked  the  sad  bondman,  and  his  tears  of  woe 
Wet  the  cold  marble  with  unheeded  flow  ; 
And  fetters  clanked  beneath  the  silver  dome 
Of  the  proud  Pantheon  of  imperious  Rome. 
Oh,  not  for  him,  the  chained  and  stricken  slave, 
By  Tiber's  shore,  or  blue  .zEgina's  wave, 
In  the  thronged  forum,  or  the  sages'  seat, 
The  bold  lip  pleaded,  and  the  warm  heart  beat ; 
No  soul  of  sorrow  melted  at  his  pain, 
No  tear  of  pity  rusted  on  his  chain  ! 

But  this  fair  Hall  to  Truth  and  Freedom  given, 

Pledged  to  the  Right  before  all  Earth  and  Heaven, 

A  free  arena  for  the  strife  of  mind, 

To  caste,  or  sect,  or  color  unconfined, 

Shall  thrill  with  echoes  such  as  ne'er  of  old 

From  Roman  hall  or  Grecian  temple  rolled ; 

Thoughts  shall  find  utterance  such  as  never  yet 

The  Propylea  or  the  Forum  met. 

Beneath  its  roof  no  gladiator's  strife 

Shall  win  applauses  with  the  waste  of  life  ; 

No  lordly  lictor  urge  the  barbarous  game, 

No  wanton  Lais  glory  in  her  shame. 

But  here  the  tear  of  sympathy  shall  flow, 

As  the  ear  listens  to  the  tale  of  woe ; 

Here  in  stern  judgment  of  the  oppressor's  wrong 

Shall  strong  rebukings  thrill  on  Freedom's  tongue, 

No  partial  justice  hold  th'  unequal  scale, 

No  pride  of  caste  a  brother's  rights  assail, 

No  tyrant's  mandates  echo  from  this  wall, 

Holy  to  Freedom  and  the  Rights  of  All ! 


PENNSYLVANIA  HALL 


61 


But  a  fair  field,  where  mind  may  close  with  mind, 
Free  as  the  sunshine  and  the  chainless  wind ; 
Where  the  high  trust  is  fixed  on  Truth  alone, 
And  bonds  and  fetters  from  the  soul  are  thrown ; 
Where  wealth,  and  rank,  and  worldly  pomp,  and 
might, 

Yield  to  the  presence  of  the  True  and  Eight. 

And  fitting  is  it  that  this  Hall  should  stand 
Where  Pennsylvania's  Founder  led  his  band, 
From  thy  blue  waters,  Delaware  !  —  to  press 
The  virgin  verdure  of  the  wilderness. 
Here,  where  all  Europe  with  amazement  saw 
The  soul's  high  freedom  trammelled  by  no  law ; 
Here,  where  the  fierce  and  warlike  forest-men 
Gathered,  in  peace,  around  the  home  of  Penn, 
Awed  by  the  weapons  Love  alone  had  given 
Drawn  from  the  holy  armory  of  Heaven  ; 
Where  Nature's  voice  against  the  bondman's  wrong 
First  found  an  earnest  and  indignant  tongue  ; 
Where  Lay's  bold  message  to  the  proud  was  borne  ; 
And  Keith's  rebuke,  and  Franklin's  manly  scorn ! 
Fitting  it  is  that  here,  where  Freedom  first 
From  her  fair  feet  shook  off  the  Old  World's 
dust, 

Spread  her  white  pinions  to  our  Western  blast, 
And  her  free  tresses  to  our  sunshine  cast, 
One  Hall  should  rise  redeemed  from  Slavery's 
ban, 

One  Temple  sacred  to  the  Eights  of  Man ! 

Oh !  if  the  spirits  of  the  parted  come, 
Visiting  angels,  to  their  olden  home ; 


62 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


If  the  dead  fathers  of  the  land  look  forth 
From  their  fair  dwellings,  to  the  things  of  earth, 
Is  it  a  dream,  that  with  their  eyes  of  love, 
They  gaze  now  on  us  from  the  bowers  above  ? 
Lay's  ardent  soul,  and  Benezet  the  mild, 
Steadfast  in  faith,  yet  gentle  as  a  child, 
Meek-hearted  Woolman,  and  that  brother-band, 
The  sorrowing  exiles  from  their  "  Father  land," 
Leaving  their  homes  in  Krieshiem's  bowers  of  vine, 
And  the  blue  beauty  of  their  glorious  Rhine, 
To  seek  amidst  our  solemn  depths  of  wood 
Freedom  from  man,  and  holy  peace  with  God ; 
Who  first  of  all  their  testimonial  gave 
Against  the  oppressor,  for  the  outcast  slave, 
Is  it  a  dream  that  such  as  these  look  down, 
And  with  their  blessing  our  rejoicings  crown  ? 
Let  us  rejoice,  that  while  the  pulpit's  door 
Is  barred  against  the  pleaders  for  the  poor ; 
While  the   Church,  wrangling  upon  points  of 
faith, 

Forgets  her  bondmen  suffering  unto  death  ; 
While  crafty  Traffic  and  the  lust  of  Gain 
Unite  to  forge  Oppression's  triple  chain, 
One  door  is  open,  and  one  Temple  free, 
As  a  resting-place  for  hunted  Liberty ! 
Where  men  may  speak,  unshackled  and  unawed, 
High  words  of  Truth,  for  Freedom  and  for  God. 
And  when  that  truth  its  perfect  work  hath  done, 
And  rich  with  blessings  o'er  our  land  hath  gone  ; 
When  not  a  slave  beneath  his  yoke  shall  pine, 
From  broad  Potomac  to  the  far  Sabine  : 
When  unto  angel  lips  at  last  is  given 
The  silver  trump  of  Jubilee  in  Heaven ; 


THE  NEW  YEAR 


63 


And  from  Virginia's  plains,  Kentucky's  shades, 

And  through  the  dim  Floridian  everglades, 

Eises,  to  meet  that  angel-trumpet's  sound, 

The  voice  of  millions  from  their  chains  unbound ; 

Then,  though  this  Hall  be  crumbling  in  decay, 

Its  strong  walls  blending  with  the  common  clay, 

Yet,  round  the  ruins  of  its  strength  shall  stand 

The  best  and  noblest  of  a  ransomed  land  — 

Pilgrims,  like  these  who  throng  around  the  shrine 

Of  Mecca,  or  of  holy  Palestine ! 

A  prouder  glory  shall  that  ruin  own 

Than  that  which  lingers  round  the  Parthenon. 

Here  shall  the  child  of  after  years  be  taught 

The  works  of  Freedom  which  his  fathers  wrought ; 

Told  of  the  trials  of  the  present  hour, 

Our  weary  strife  with  prejudice  and  power ; 

How  the  high  errand  quickened  woman's  soul, 

And  touched  her  lip  as  with  a  living  coal ; 

How  Freedom's  martyrs  kept  their  lofty  faith 

True  and  unwavering,  unto  bonds  and  death ; 

The  pencil's  art  shall  sketch  the  ruined  Hall, 

The  Muses'  garland  crown  its  aged  wall, 

And  History's  pen  for  after  times  record 

Its  consecration  unto  Freedom's  God  ! 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 
Addressed  to  the  Patrons  of  the  Pennsylvania  Freeman. 

The  wave  is  breaking  on  the  shore, 
The  echo  fading  from  the  chime ; 

Again  the  shadow  moveth  o'er 
The  dial-plate  of  time ! 


64  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


O  seer-seen  Angel !  waiting  now 
With  weary  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 

Impatient  for  the  last  dread  vow 
That  time  shall  be  no  more ! 

Once  more  across  thy  sleepless  eye 
The  semblance  of  a  smile  has  passed : 

The  year  departing  leaves  more  nigh 
Time's  fearfullest  and  last. 

Oh,  in  that  dying  year  hath  been 
The  sum  of  all  since  time  began  ; 

The  birth  and  death,  the  joy  and  pain, 
Of  Nature  and  of  Man. 

Spring,  with  her  change  of  sun  and  shower, 
And  streams  released  from  Winter's  chain? 

And  bursting  bud,  and  opening  flower, 
And  greenly  growing  grain  ; 

And  Summer's  shade,  and  sunshine  warm, 
And  rainbows  o'er  her  hill-tops  bowed, 

And  voices  in  her  rising  storm  ; 
God  speaking  from  His  cloud ! 

And  Autumn's  fruits  and  clustering  sheaves, 
And  soft,  warm  days  of  golden  light, 

The  glory  of  her  forest  leaves, 
And  harvest-moon  at  night ; 

And  Winter  with  her  leafless  grove, 

And  prisoned  stream,  and  drifting  snow, 

The  brilliance  of  her  heaven  above 
And  of  her  earth  below  : 


THE  NEW  YEAR 


65 


And  man,  in  whom  an  angel's  mind 
With  earth's  low  instincts  finds  abode, 

The  highest  of  the  links  which  bind 
Brute  nature  to  her  God  ; 

His  infant  eye  hath  seen  the  light, 

His  childhood's  merriest  laughter  rung, 

And  active  sports  to  manlier  might 
The  nerves  of  boyhood  strung ! 

And  quiet  love,  and  passion's  fires, 

Have  soothed  or  burned  in  manhood's  breast, 
And  lofty  aims  and  low  desires 

By  turns  disturbed  his  rest. 

The  wailing  of  the  newly-born 

Has  mingled  with  the  funeral  knell ; 

And  o'er  the  dying's  ear  has  gone 
The  merry  marriage-bell. 

And  Wealth  has  filled  his  halls  with  mirth, 
While  Want,  in  many  a  humble  shed, 

Toiled,  shivering  by  her  cheerless  hearth, 
The  live-long  night  for  bread. 

And  worse  than  all,  the  human  slave, 
The  sport  of  lust,  and  pride,  and  scorn ! 

Plucked  off  the  crown  his  Maker  gave, 
His  regal  manhood  gone ! 

Oh,  still,  my  country !  o'er  thy  plains, 
Blackened  with  slavery's  blight  and  ban, 

That  human  chattel  drags  his  chains, 
An  uncreated  man ! 

vol.  in.  5 


66 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


And  still,  where'er  to  sun  and  breeze, 
My  country,  is  thy  flag  unrolled, 

With  scorn,  the  gazing  stranger  sees 
A  stain  on  every  fold. 

Oh,  tear  the  gorgeous  emblem  down ! 

It  gathers  scorn  from  every  eye, 
And  despots  smile  and  good  men  frown 

Whene'er  it  passes  by. 

Shame  !  shame !  its  starry  splendors  glow 
Above  the  slaver's  loathsome  jail ; 

Its  folds  are  ruffling  even  now 
His  crimson  flag  of  sale. 

Still  round  our  country's  proudest  hall 
The  trade  in  human  flesh  is  driven, 

And  at  each  careless  hammer-fall 
A  human  heart  is  riven. 

And  this,  too,  sanctioned  by  the  men 
Vested  with  power  to  shield  the  right, 

And  throw  each  vile  and  robber  den 
Wide  open  to  the  light. 

Yet,  shame  upon  them !  there  they  sit, 
Men  of  the  North,  subdued  and  still  ; 

Meek,  pliant  poltroons,  only  fit 
To  work  a  master's  will. 

Sold,  bargained  off  for  Southern  votes, 
A  passive  herd  of  Northern  mules, 

Just  braying  through  their  purchased  throats 
Whate'er  their  owner  rules. 


THE  NEW  YEAR 


67 


And  he,2  the  basest  of  the  base, 
The  vilest  of  the  vile,  whose  name, 

Embalmed  in  infinite  disgrace, 
Is  deathless  in  its  shame ! 

A  tool,  to  bolt  the  people's  door 
Against  the  people  clamoring  there, 

An  ass,  to  trample  on  their  floor 
A  people's  right  of  prayer  ! 

Nailed  to  his  self-made  gibbet  fast, 
Self-pilloried  to  the  public  view, 

A  mark  for  every  passing  blast 
Of  scorn  to  whistle  through  ; 

There  let  him  hang,  and  hear  the  boast 
Of  Southrons  o'er  their  pliant  tool,  — 

A  new  Stylites  on  his  post, 
"  Sacred  to  ridicule  !  " 

Look  we  at  home !  our  noble  hall, 
To  Freedom's  holy  purpose  given, 

Now  rears  its  black  and  ruined  wall, 
Beneath  the  wintry  heaven, 

Telling  the  story  of  its  doom, 

The  fiendish  mob,  the  prostrate  law, 

The  fiery  jet  through  midnight's  gloom, 
Our  gazing  thousands  saw. 

Look  to  our  State  !  the  poor  man's  right 
Torn  from  him :  and  the  sons  of  those 

Whose  blood  in  Freedom's  sternest  fight 
Sprinkled  the  Jersey  snows, 


68  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Outlawed  within  the  land  of  Penn, 

That  Slavery's  guilty  fears  might  cease, 

And  those  whom  God  created  men 
Toil  on  as  brutes  in  peace. 

Yet  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  storm 
A  bow  of  promise  bends  on  high, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine,  soft  and  warm, 
Break  through  our  clouded  sky. 

East,  West,  and  North,  the  shout  is  heard, 
Of  freemen  rising  for  the  right : 

Each  valley  hath  its  rallying  word, 
Each  hill  its  signal  light. 

O'er  Massachusetts'  rocks  of  gray, 

The  strengthening  light  of  freedom  shines, 

Rhode  Island's  Narragansett  Bay, 
And  Vermont's  snow-hung  pines  ! 

From  Hudson's  frowning  palisades 

To  Alleghany's  laurelled  crest, 
O'er  lakes  and  prairies,  streams  and  glades, 

It  shines  upon  the  West. 

Speed  on  the  light  to  those  who  dwell 
In  Slavery's  land  of  woe  and  sin, 

And  through  the  blackness  of  that  hell, 
Let  Heaven's  own  light  break  in. 

So  shall  the  Southern  conscience  quake 
Before  that  light  poured  full  and  strong, 

So  shall  the  Southern  heart  awake 
To  all  the  bondman's  wrong. 


THE  RELIC 


69 


And  from  that  rich  and  sunny  land 
The  song  of  grateful  millions  rise, 

Like  that  of  Israel's  ransomed  band 
Beneath  Arabia's  skies : 

And  all  who  now  are  bound  beneath 
Our  banner's  shade,  our  eagle's  wing, 

From  Slavery's  night  of  moral  death 
To  light  and  life  shall  spring. 

Broken  the  bondman's  chain,  and  gone 
The  master's  guilt,  and  hate,  and  fear, 

And  unto  both  alike  shall  dawn 
A  New  and  Happy  Year. 

1839. 


THE  RELIC. 

Written  on  receiving  a  cane  wrought  from  a  fragment  of  the 
wood- work  of  Pennsylvania  Hall  which  the  fire  had  spared. 

Token  of  friendship  true  and  tried, 
From  one  whose  fiery  heart  of  youth 

With  mine  has  beaten,  side  by  side, 
For  Liberty  and  Truth  ; 

With  honest  pride  the  gift  I  take, 

And  prize  it  for  the  giver's  sake. 

But  not  alone  because  it  tells 

Of  generous  hand  and  heart  sincere  ; 

Around  that  gift  of  friendship  dwells 
A  memory  doubly  dear  ; 

Earth's  noblest  aim,  man's  holiest  thought, 

With  that  memorial  frail  inwrought ! 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

Pure  thoughts  and  sweet  like  flowers  unfold, 
And  precious  memories  round  it  cling, 

Even  as  the  Prophet's  rod  of  old 
In  beauty  blossoming : 

And  buds  of  feeling,  pure  and  good, 

Spring  from  its  cold  unconscious  wood. 

Eelic  of  Freedom's  shrine !  a  brand 
Plucked  from  its  burning !  let  it  be 

Dear  as  a  jewel  from  the  hand 
Of  a  lost  friend  to  me  ! 

Flower  of  a  perished  garland  left, 

Of  life  and  beauty  unberef t ! 

Oh,  if  the  young  enthusiast  bears, 
O'er  weary  waste  and  sea,  the  stone 

Which  crumbled  from  the  Forum's  stairs, 
Or  round  the  Parthenon  ; 

Or  olive-bough  from  some  wild  tree 

Hung  over  old  Thermopylae : 

If  leaflets  from  some  hero's  tomb, 

Or  moss-wreath  torn  from  ruins  hoary ; 

Or  faded  flowers  whose  sisters  bloom 
On  fields  renowned  in  story  ; 

Or  fragment  from  the  Alhambra's  crest, 

Or  the  gray  rock  by  Druids  blessed ; 

Sad  Erin's  shamrock  greenly  growing 
Where  Freedom  led  her  stalwart  kern, 

Or  Scotia's  "  rough  bur  thistle  "  blowing 
On  Bruce's  Bannockburn  ; 

Or  Runnymede's  wild  English  rose, 

Or  lichen  plucked  from  Sempach's  snows  ! 


THE  RELIC 


71 


If  it  be  true  that  things  like  these 

To  heart  and  eye  bright  visions  bring, 

Shall  not  far  holier  memories 
To  this  memorial  cling  ? 

Which  needs  no  mellowing  mist  of  time 

To  hide  the  crimson  stains  of  crime  ! 

Wreck  of  a  temple,  unprofaned  ; 

Of  courts  where  Peace  with  Freedom  trod, 
Lifting  on  high,  with  hands  unstained, 

Thanksgiving  unto  God ; 
Where  Mercy's  voice  of  love  was  pleading 
For  human  hearts  in  bondage  bleeding  ! 

Where,  midst  the  sound  of  rushing  feet 
And  curses  on  the  night-air  flung, 

That  pleading  voice  rose  calm  and  sweet 
From  woman's  earnest  tongue ; 

And  Riot  turned  his  scowling  glance, 

Awed,  from  her  tranquil  countenance  ! 

That  temple  now  in  ruin  lies ! 

The  fire-stain  on  its  shattered  wall, 
And  open  to  the  changing  skies 

Its  black  and  roofless  hall, 
It  stands  before  a  nation's  sight, 
A  gravestone  over  buried  Right ! 

But  from  that  ruin,  as  of  old, 

The  fire-scorched  stones  themselves  are  crying, 
And  from  their  ashes  white  and  cold 

Its  timbers  are  replying ! 
A  voice  which  slavery  cannot  kill 
Speaks  from  the  crumbling  arches  still ! 


72  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

And  even  this  relic  from  thy  shrine, 

O  holy  Freedom !  hath  to  me 
A  potent  power,  a  voice  and  sign 

To  testify  of  thee  ; 
And,  grasping  it,  methinks  I  feel 
A  deeper  faith,  a  stronger  zeal. 

And  not  unlike  that  mystic  rod, 

Of  old  stretched  o'er  the  Egyptian  wave, 
Which  opened,  in  the  strength  of  God, 

A  pathway  for  the  slave, 
It  yet  may  point  the  bondman's  way, 
And  turn  the  spoiler  from  his  prey. 
1839. 

THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION 

OF  THE  FRIENDS  OF  EMANCIPATION,  HELD  IN  LONDON 
IN  1840. 

Joseph  Sturge,  the  founder  of  the  British  and  Foreign  Anti- 
Slavery  Society,  proposed  the  calling  of  a  world's  anti-slavery 
convention,  and  the  proposal  was  promptly  seconded  hy  the 
American  Anti-Slavery  Society.  The  call  was  addressed  to 
"  friends  of  the  slave  of  every  nation  and  of  every  clime." 

Yes,  let  them  gather  !    Summon  forth 
The  pledged  philanthropy  of  Earth. 
From  every  land,  whose  hills  have  heard 
The  bugle  blast  of  Freedom  waking ; 
Or  shrieking  of  her  symbol-bird 

From  out  his  cloudy  eyrie  breaking  : 
Where  Justice  hath  one  worshipper, 
Or  truth  one  altar  built  to  her ; 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION  73 


Where'er  a  human  eye  is  weeping 

O'er  wrongs  which  Earth's  sad  children  know ; 

Where'er  a  single  heart  is  keeping- 
Its  prayerful  watch  with  human  woe  : 

Thence  let  them  come,  and  greet  each  other, 

And  know  in  each  a  friend  and  brother  ! 

Yes,  let  them  come !  from  each  green  vale 

Where  England's  old.  baronial  halls 

Still  bear  upon  their  storied  walls 
The  grim  crusader's  rusted  mail, 
Battered  by  Paynim  spear  and  brand 
On  Malta's  rock  or  Syria's  sand ! 
And  mouldering  pennon-staves  once  set 

Within  the  soil  of  Palestine, 
By  J ordan  and  Gennesaret ; 

Or,  borne  with  England's  battle  line, 
O'er  Acre's  shattered  turrets  stooping, 
Or,  midst  the  camp  their  banners  drooping, 

With  dews  from  hallowed  Hermon  wet, 
A  holier  summons  now  is  given 

Than  that  gray  hermit's  voice  of  old, 
Which  unto  all  the  winds  of  heaven 

The  banners  of  the  Cross  unrolled ! 
Not  for  the  long-deserted  shrine  ; 

Not  for  the  dull  unconscious  sod, 
Which  tells  not  by  one  lingering  sign 

That  there  the  hope  of  Israel  trod  ; 
But  for  that  truth,  for  which  alone 

In  pilgrim  eyes  are  sanctified 
The  garden  moss,  the  mountain  stone, 
Whereon  His  holy  sandals  pressed,  — 
The  fountain  which  His  lip  hath  blessed,  — 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

Whate'er  hath  touched  His  garment's  hem 

At  Bethany  or  Bethlehem, 

Or  Jordan's  river-side. 
For  Freedom  in  the  name  of  Him 

Who  came  to  raise  Earth's  drooping  poor, 
To  break  the  chain  from  every  limb, 
The  bolt  from  every  prison  door ! 
For  these,  o'er  all  the  earth  hath  passed 
An  ever-deepening  trumpet  blast, 
As  if  an  angel's  breath  had  lent 
Its  vigor  to  the  instrument. 

And  Wales,  from  Snowden's  mountain  wall, 
Shall  startle  at  that  thrilling  call, 

As  if  she  heard  her  bards  again ; 
And  Erin's  "  harp  on  Tara's  wall " 

Give  out  its  ancient  strain, 
Mirthful  and  sweet,  yet  sad  withal,  — 

The  melody  which  Erin  loves, 
When  o'er  that  harp,  'mid  bursts  of  gladness 
And  slogan  cries  and  lyke-wake  sadness, 

The  hand  of  her  O'Connell  moves ! 
Scotland,  from  lake  and  tarn  and  rill, 
And  mountain  hold,  and  heathery  hill, 
Shall  catch  and  echo  back  the  note, 
As  if  she  heard  upon  the  air 
Once  more  her  Cameronian's  prayer 

And  song  of  Freedom  float. 
And  cheering  echoes  shall  reply 
From  each  remote  dependency, 
Where  Britain's  mighty  sway  is  known, 
In  tropic  sea  or  frozen  zone ; 
Where'er  her  sunset  flag  is  furling, 
Or  morning  gun-fire's  smoke  is  curling  ; 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION 


From  Indian  Bengal's  groves  of  palm 
And  rosy  fields  and  gales  of  balm, 
Where  Eastern  pomp  and  power  are  rolled 
Through  regal  Ava's  gates  of  gold ; 
And  from  the  lakes  and  ancient  woods 
And  dim  Canadian  solitudes, 
Whence,  sternly  from  her  rocky  throne, 
Queen  of  the  North,  Quebec  looks  down  ; 
And  from  those  bright  and  ransomed  Isles 
Where  all  unwonted  Freedom  smiles, 
And  the  dark  laborer  still  retains 
The  scar  of  slavery's  broken  chains ! 

From  the  hoar  Alps,  which  sentinel 
The  gateways  of  the  land  of  Tell, 
Where  morning's  keen  and  earliest  glance 

On  Jura's  rocky  wall  is  thrown, 
And  from  the  olive  bowers  of  France 

And  vine  groves  garlanding  the  Ehone,  — 
"  Friends  of  the  Blacks,"  as  true  and  tried 
As  those  who  stood  by  Oge's  side, 
And  heard  the  Haytien's  tale  of  wrong, 
Shall  gather  at  that  summons  strong ; 
Broglie,  Passy,  and  he  whose  song 
Breathed  over  Syria's  holy  sod, 
And  in  the  paths  which  Jesus  trod, 
And  murmured  midst  the  hills  which  hem 
Crownless  and  sad  Jerusalem, 
Hath  echoes  whereso'er  the  tone 
Of  Israel's  prophet-lyre  is  known. 

Still  let  them  come ;  from  Quito's  walls, 
And  from  the  Orinoco's  tide, 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

From  Lima's  Inca-haunted  halls, 
From  Santa  Fe  and  Yucatan,  — 

Men  who  by  swart  Guerrero's  side 
Proclaimed  the  deathless  rights  of  man, 

Broke  every  bond  and  fetter  off, 

And  hailed  in  every  sable  serf 
A  free  and  brother  Mexican  ! 
Chiefs  who  across  the  Andes'  chain 

Have  followed  Freedom's  flowing  pennon, 
And  seen  on  Junin's  fearful  plain, 
Glare  o'er  the  broken  ranks  of  Spain 

The  fire-burst  of  Bolivar's  cannon ! 
And  Hayti,  from  her  mountain  land, 

Shall  send  the  sons  of  those  who  hurled 
Defiance  from  her  blazing  strand, 
The  war-gage  from  her  Petion's  hand, 

Alone  against  a  hostile  world. 

Nor  all  unmindful,  thou,  the  while, 
Land  of  the  dark  and  mystic  Nile ! 

Thy  Moslem  mercy  yet  may  shame 

All  tyrants  of  a  Christian  name, 
When  in  the  shade  of  Gizeh's  pile, 
Or,  where,  from  Abyssinian  hills 
El  Gerek's  upper  fountain  fills, 
Or  where  from  Mountains  of  the  Moon 
El  Abiad  bears  his  watery  boon, 
Where'er  thy  lotus  blossoms  swim 

Within  their  ancient  hallowed  waters : 
Where'er  is  heard  the  Coptic  hymn, 

Or  song  of  Nubia's  sable  daughters ; 
The  curse  of  slavery  and  the  crime, 
Thy  bequest  from  remotest  time, 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION  11 


At  thy  dark  Mehemet's  decree 
Forevermore  shall  pass  from  thee  *, 

And  chains  forsake  each  captive's  limb 
Of  all  those  tribes,  whose  hills  around 
Have  echoed  back  the  cymbal  sound 

And  victor  horn  of  Ibrahim. 

And  thou  whose  glory  and  whose  crime 
To  earth's  remotest  bound  and  clime, 
In  mingled  tones  of  awe  and  scorn, 
The  echoes  of  a  world  have  borne, 
My  country  !  glorious  at  thy  birth, 
A  day-star  flashing  brightly  forth, 

The  herald-sign  of  Freedom's  dawn  ! 
Oh,  who  could  dream  that  saw  thee  then, 

And  watched  thy  rising  from  afar, 
That  vapors  from  oppression's  fen 

Would  cloud  the  upward  tending  star  ? 
Or,  that  earth's  tyrant  powers,  which  heard, 

Awe-struck,  the  shout  which  hailed  thy  dawning, 
Would  rise  so  soon,  prince,  peer,  and  king, 
To  mock  thee  with  their  welcoming, 
Like  Hades  when  her  thrones  were  stirred 

To  greet  the  down-cast  Star  of  Morning ! 
"  Aha  !  and  art  thou  fallen  thus  ? 
Art  thou  become  as  one  of  us  ?  " 

Land  of  my  fathers  !  there  will  stand, 
Amidst  that  world-assembled  band, 
Those  owning  thy  maternal  claim 
Unweakened  by  thy  crime  and  shame  ; 
The  sad  reprovers  of  thy  wrong ; 
The  children  thou  hast  spurned  so  long. 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Still  with  affection's  fondest  yearning 
To  their  unnatural  mother  turning. 
No  traitors  they  '  but  tried  and  leal, 
Whose  own  is  but  thy  general  weal, 
Still  blending  with  the  patriot's  zeal 
The  Christian's  love  for  human  kind, 
To  caste  and  climate  unconfined. 

A  holy  gathering  !  peaceful  all : 
No  threat  of  war,  no  savage  call 

For  vengeance  on  an  erring  brother ! 
But  in  their  stead  the  godlike  plan 
To  teach  the  brotherhood  of  man 

To  love  and  reverence  one  another, 
As  sharers  of  a  common  blood, 
The  children  of  a  common  God ! 
Yet,  even  at  its  lightest  word, 
Shall  Slavery's  darkest  depths  be  stirred : 
Spain,  watching  from  her  Moro's  keep 
Her  slave-ships  traversing  the  deep, 
And  Rio,  in  her  strength  and  pride, 
Lifting,  along  her  mountain-side, 
Her  snowy  battlements  and  towers, 
Her  lemon-groves  and  tropic  bowers, 
With  bitter  hate  and  sullen  fear 
Its  freedom-giving  voice  shall  hear  ; 
And  where  my  country's  flag  is  flowing, 
On  breezes  from  Mount  Vernon  blowing, 

Above  the  Nation's  council  halls, 
Where  Freedom's  praise  is  loud  and  long, 

While  close  beneath  the  outward  walls 
The  driver  plies  his  reeking  thong ; 

The  hammer  of  the  man-thief  falls, 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION 


O'er  hypocritic  cheek  and  brow 

The  crimson  flush  of  shame  shall  glow  : 

And  all  who  for  their  native  land 

Are  pledging  life  and  heart  and  hand, 

"Worn  watchers  o'er  her  changing  weal, 

Who  for  her  tarnished  honor  feel, 

Through  cottage  door  and  council-hall 

Shall  thunder  an  awakening  call. 

The  pen  along  its  page  shall  burn 

With  all  intolerable  scorn ; 

An  eloquent  rebuke  shall  go 

On  all  the  winds  that  Southward  blow ; 

From  priestly  lips,  now  sealed  and  dumb, 

Warning  and  dread  appeal  shall  come, 

Like  those  which  Israel  heard  from  him, 

The  Prophet  of  the  Cherubim ; 

Or  those  which  sad  Esaias  hurled 

Against  a  sin-accursed  world  ! 

Its  wizard  leaves  the  Press  shall  fling 

Unceasing  from  its  iron  wing, 

With  characters  inscribed  thereon, 

As  fearful  in  the  despot's  hall 
As  to  the  pomp  of  Babylon 

The  fire-sign  on  the  palace  wall ! 

And,  from  her  dark  iniquities, 
Methinks  I  see  my  country  rise : 
Not  challenging  the  nations  round 

To  note  her  tardy  justice  done  ; 
Her  captives  from  their  chains  unbound. 

Her  prisons  opening  to  the  sun  : 
But  tearfully  her  arms  extending 
Over  the  poor  and  unoffending ; 

Her  regal  emblem  now  no  longer 


80  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


A  bird  of  prey,  with  talons  reeking, 
Above  the  dying  captive  shrieking, 
But,  spreading  out  her  ample  wing, 
A  broad,  impartial  covering, 

The  weaker  sheltered  by  the  stronger  ! 
Oh,  then  to  Faith's  anointed  eyes 

The  promised  token  shall  be  given ; 
And  on  a  nation's  sacrifice, 
Atoning  for  the  sin  of  years, 
And  wet  with  penitential  tears, 

The  fire  shall  fall  from  Heaven  ! 

1839. 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA. 

Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  proceedings  of  the  citizens 
of  Norfolk,  Va.,  in  reference  to  George  Latimer,  the  alleged 
fugitive  slave,  who  was  seized  in  Boston  without  warrant  at  the 
request  of  James  B.  Grey,  of  Norfolk,  claiming  to  be  his  master. 
The  case  caused  great  excitement  North  and  South,  and  led  to  the 
presentation  of  a  petition  to  Congress,  signed  by  more  than  fifty 
thousand  citizens  of  Massachusetts,  calling  for  such  laws  and  pro- 
posed amendments  to  the  Constitution  as  should  relieve  the  Com- 
monwealth from  all  further  participation  in  the  crime  of  oppres- 
sion. George  Latimer  himself  was  finally  given  free  papers  for 
the  sum  of  four  hundred  dollars. 

The  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon  its 

Southern  way, 
Bears  greeting  to  Virginia  from  Massachusetts 

Bay: 

No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle  bugle's 
peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  nor  clang  of 
horsemen's  steel. 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA  81 


No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our  high- 
ways go ; 

Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies  the  snow  ; 
And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports,  upon  their 
errands  far, 

A  thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but  none  are 
spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia  !  thy  stormy  words 
and  high, 

Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which  melt 

along  our  sky ; 
Yet,  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  foregoes  its  honest 

labor  here, 

No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his  axe 
in  fear. 

Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs  along  St. 

George's  bank ; 
Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white 

and  dank ; 

Through  storm,  and  wave,  and  blinding  mist,  stout 

are  the  hearts  which  man 
The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea-boats  of 

Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare  on  their 
icy  forms, 

Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or  wrestling 

with  the  storms ; 
Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough  as  the 

waves  they  roam, 
They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver's  threat  against 

their  rocky  home. 

vol. in.  6 


82  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


What  means  the  Old  Dominion  ?  Hath  she  forgot 
the  day 

When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys  swept  the  Briton's 
steel  array  ? 

How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Massachu- 
setts men 

Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and  stout 
Cornwallis,  then  ? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the  call 

Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out  from 
FaneuilHall? 

When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came  pulsing 
on  each  breath 

Of  Northern  winds,  the  thrilling  sounds  of  "  Lib- 
erty or  Death !  " 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion  ?  If  now  her  sons 
have  proved 

False  to  their  fathers'  memory,  false  to  the  faith 
they  loved ; 

If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great  charter 
spurn, 

Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  truth  and  duty 
turn? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Slavery's 
hateful  hell ; 

Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the  blood- 
hound's yell ; 

We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our  fathers' 
graves, 

From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  tear  your 
wretched  slaves ! 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA  83 


Thank  God  !  not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massachusetts 
bow ; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even  now ; 
Dream  not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood  moves  slow 

and  calm  and  cool, 
She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a  sister's 

slave  and  tool ! 

All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that  a  free 
State  may, 

Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in  our  early 
day; 

But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye  must  stag- 
ger with  alone, 

And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  yourselves 
have  sown ! 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves,  and 
burden  God's  free  air 

With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and  man- 
hood's wild  despair ; 

Cling  closer  to  the  "  cleaving  curse  "  that  writes 
upon  your  plains 

The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a  land  of 
chains. 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the  cavaliers  of 
old, 

By  watching  round  the  shambles  where  human 
flesh  is  sold ; 

Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  and  count  his  mar- 
ket value,  when 

The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall  pierce  the 
slaver's  den ! 


84 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Lower  than  plummet  soundeth,  sink  the  Virginia 
name ; 

Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  with  rankest 

weeds  of  shame ; 
Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  universe ; 
We  wash  our  hands  forever  of  your  sin  and  shame 

and  curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from  Freedom's 

shrine  hath  been, 
Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of  Berkshire's 

mountain  men : 
The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly  lingering 

still 

In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind-swept  hill. 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came  hunting 
for  his  prey 

Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker's  shaft  of 
gray, 

How,  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son,  the  father's 

warning  spoke ; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect,  the  Pilgrim 

city  broke ! 

A  hundred  thousand  right  arms  were  lifted  up  on 
high, 

A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their  loud 
reply ; 

Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the  startling 

summons  rang, 
And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel  her  young 

mechanics  sprang ! 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA  85 


The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex,  of  thousands 
as  of  one, 

The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  Lexington  ; 
From  Norfolk's  ancient  villages,  from  Plymouth's 
rocky  bound 

To  where  Nantucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean  close 
her  round ; 

From  rich  and  rural  Worcester,  where  through  the 
calm  repose 

Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the  gentle 

Nashua  flows, 
To  where  Wachuset's  wintry  blasts  the  mountain 

larches  stir, 

Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of  "  God 
save  Latimer !  " 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with  the  salt 
sea  spray ; 

And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down  Narra- 

gansett  Bay ! 
Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hampden  felt  the 

thrill, 

And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen  swept 
down  from  Holyoke  Hill. 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts  !   Of  her  free  sons  and 
daughters, 

Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud,  the  sound  of  many 
waters ! 

Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  tyrant  power 
shall  stand  ? 

No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State !    No  slave  upon  her 
land! 


86 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Look  to  it  well,  Virginians  !    In  calmness  we  have 
borne, 

In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult  and 
your  scorn  ; 

You 've  spurned  our  kindest   counsels ;  you 've 

hunted  for  our  lives  ; 
And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and  homes  your 

manacles  and  gyves ! 

We  wage  no  war,  we  lift  no  arm,  we  fling  no  torch 
within 

The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath  your 
soil  of  sin ; 

We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to  wrestle,  while 
ye  can, 

With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and  godlike 
soul  of  man! 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow  which  we 
have  given 

For  freedom  and  humanity  is  registered  in  heaven ; 
No  slave-hunt  in  our  borders,  —  no  pirate  on  our 
strand ! 

No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State,  —  no  slave  upon  our 
land! 

1843. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SLAVE. 

In  a  publication  of  L.  F.  Tasistro  —  Random  Shots  and  South- 
ern Breezes  —  is  a  description  of  a  slave  auction  at  New  Orleans, 
at  which  the  auctioneer  recommended  the  woman  on  the  stand  as 
"  a  good  Christian  !  "    It  was  not  uncommon  to  see  advertise- 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SLAVE 


87 


ments  of  slaves  for  sale,  in  which  they  were  described  as  pious  or 
as  members  of  the  church.  In  one  advertisement  a  slave  was 
noted  as  "  a  Baptist  preacher." 

A  Christian  !  going,  gone ! 
Who  bids  for  God's  own  image  ?  for  his  grace, 
Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market-place 

Hath  in  her  suffering  won  ? 

My  God !  can  such  things  be  ? 
Hast  Thou  not  said  that  whatsoe'er  is  done 
Unto  Thy  weakest  and  Thy  humblest  one 

Is  even  done  to  Thee  ? 

In  that  sad  victim,  then, 
Child  of  Thy  pitying  love,  I  see  Thee  stand ; 
Once  more  the  jest-word  of  a  mocking  band, 

Bound,  sold,  and  scourged  again  ! 

A  Christian  up  for  sale  ! 
Wet  with  her  blood  your  whips,  o'ertask  her  frame, 
Make  her  life  loathsome  with  your  wrong  and 
shame, 

Her  patience  shall  not  fail ! 

A  heathen  hand  might  deal 
Back  on  your  heads  the  gathered  wrong  of  years  : 
But  her  low,  broken  prayer  and  nightly  tears, 

Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel. 

Con  well  thy  lesson  o'er, 
Thou  prudent  teacher,  tell  the  toiling  slave 
No  dangerous  tale  of  Him  who  came  to  save 

The  outcast  and  the  poor. 


88  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God's  free  Gospel  from  her  simple  heart, 
And  to  her  darkened  mind  alone  impart 

One  stern  command,  Obey !  3 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The  market  price  of  human  flesh ;  and  while 
On  thee,  their  pampered  guest,  the  planters  smile, 

Thy  church  shall  praise. 

Grave,  reverend  men  shall  tell 
From  Northern  pulpits  how  thy  work  was  blest, 
While  in  that  vile  South  Sodom  first  and  best, 

Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 

Oh,  shame  !  the  Moslem  thrall, 
Who,  with  his  master,  to  the  Prophet  kneels, 
While  turning  to  the  sacred  Kebla  feels 

His  fetters  break  and  fall. 

Cheers  for  the  turbaned  Bey 
Of  robber-peopled  Tunis  !  he  hath  torn 
The  dark  slave-dungeons  open,  and  hath  borne 

Their  inmates  into  day  : 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 
Turns  to  the  Christian  shrine  his  aching  eyes ; 
Its  rites  will  only  swell  his  market  price, 

And  rivet  on  his  chain. 

God  of  all  right !  how  long 
Shall  priestly  robbers  at  Thine  altar  stand, 
Lifting  in  prayer  to  Thee,  the  bloody  hand 

And  haughty  brow  of  wrong  ? 


THE  SENTENCE  OF  JOHN  L.  BROWN  89 


Oh,  from  the  fields  of  cane, 
From  the  low  rice-swamp,  from  the  trader's  cell ; 
From  the  black  slave-ship's  foul  and  loathsome  hell, 

And  coffle's  weary  chain  ; 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong, 
Rises  to  Heaven  that  agonizing  cry, 
Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky, 
How  long,  O  God,  how  long  ? 
1843. 


THE  SENTENCE  OF  JOHN  L.  BROWN. 

John  L.  Brown,  a  young  white  man  of  South  Carolina, 
was  in  1844  sentenced  to  death  for  aiding  a  young  slave 
woman,  whom  he  loved  and  had  married,  to  escape  from 
slavery.  In  pronouncing  the  sentence  Judge  O'Neale 
addressed  to  the  prisoner  these  words  of  appalling  blas- 
phemy : 

You  are  to  die  !  To  die  an  ignominious  death  —  the  death  on 
the  gallows  !  This  announcement  is,  to  you,  I  know,  most  appall- 
ing. Little  did  you  dream  of  it  when  you  stepped  into  the  har 
with  an  air  as  if  you  thought  it  was  a  fine  frolic.  But  the  conse- 
quences of  crime  are  just  such  as  you  are  realizing.  Punishment 
often  comes  when  it  is  least  expected.  Let  me  entreat  you  to 
take  the  present  opportunity  to  commence  the  work  of  reforma- 
tion. Time  will  be  furnished  you  to  prepare  for  the  great  change 
just  before  you.  Of  your  past  life  I  know  nothing,  except  what 
your  trial  furnished.  That  told  me  that  the  crime  for  which  you 
are  to  suffer  was  the  consequence  of  a  want  of  attention  on  your 
part  to  the  duties  of  life.  The  strange  woman  snared  you.  She 
flattered  you  with  her  words,  and  you  became  her  victim.  The 
consequence  was,  that,  led  on  by  a  desire  to  serve  her,  you  com- 
mitted the  offence  of  aiding  a  slave  to  run  away  and  depart  from 
her  master's  service  ;  and  now,  for  it  you  are  to  die  ! 

You  are  a  young  man,  and  I  fear  you  have  been  dissolute ;  and 


90  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


if  so,  these  kindred  vices  have  contributed  a  full  measure  to  you? 
ruin.  Reflect  on  your  past  life,  and  make  the  only  useful  devo- 
tion of  the  remnant  of  your  days  in  preparing  for  death. 

Remember  now  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thy  youth  is  the  lan- 
guage of  inspired  wisdom.  This  comes  home  appropriately  to 
you  in  this  trying  moment. 

You  are  young ;  quite  too  young  to  be  where  you  are.  If  you 
had  remembered  your  Creator  in  your  past  days,  you  would  not 
now  be  in  a  felon's  place,  to  receive  a  felon's  judgment.  Still,  it 
is  not  too  late  to  remember  your  Creator.  He  calls  early,  and  He 
calls  late.  He  stretches  out  the  arms  of  a  Father's  love  to  you  — 
to  the  vilest  sinner  —  and  says :  "  Come  unto  me  and  be  saved." 
You  can  perhaps  read.  If  so,  read  the  Scriptures ;  read  them 
without  note,  and  without  comment ;  and  pray  to  God  for  His  as- 
sistance ;  and  you  will  be  able  to  say  when  you  pass  from  prison 
to  execution,  as  a  poor  slave  said  under  similar  circumstances :  "  I 
am  glad  my  Friday  has  come. "  If  you  cannot  read  the  Scrip- 
tures, the  ministers  of  our  holy  religion  will  be  ready  to  aid  you. 
They  will  read  and  explain  to  you  until  you  will  be  able  to  under- 
stand ;  and  understanding,  to  call  upon  the  only  One  who  can  help 
you  and  save  you  —  Jesus  Christ,  the  Lamb  of  God,  who  taketh 
away  the  sin  of  the  world.  To  Him  I  commend  you.  And 
through  Him  may  you  have  that  opening  of  the  Day-Spring  of 
mercy  from  on  high,  which  shall  bless  you  here,  and  crown  you  as 
a  saint  in  an  everlasting  world,  forever  and  ever. 

The  sentence  of  the  law  is  that  you  be  taken  hence  to  the  place 
from  whence  you  came  last ;  thence  to  the  jail  of  Fairfield  Dis- 
trict ;  and  that  there  you  be  closely  and  securely  confined  until 
Friday,  the  26th  day  of  April  next ;  on  which  day,  between  the 
hours  of  ten  in  the  forenoon  and  two  in  the  afternoon,  you  will  be 
taken  to  the  place  of  public  execution,  and  there  be  hanged  by 
the  neck  till  your  body  be  dead.  And  may  God  have  mercy  on 
your  soul ! 

No  event  in  the  history  of  the  anti-slavery  struggle  so 
stirred  the  two  hemispheres  as  did  this  dreadful  sen- 
tence. A  cry  of  horror  was  heard  from  Europe.  In  the 
British  House  of  Lords  Brougham  and  Denman  spoke 
of  it  with  mingled  pathos  and  indignation.  Thirteen  hun- 
dred clergymen  and  church  officers  in  Great  Britain  ad- 
dressed a  memorial  to  the  churches  of  South  Carolina 
against  the  atrocity.    Indeed,  so  strong  was  the  pressure 


THE  SENTENCE  OF  JOHN  L.  BROWN  91 


of  the  sentiment  of  abhorrence  and  disgust  that  South 
Carolina  yielded  to  it,  and  the  sentence  was  commuted  to 
scourging  and  banishment. 

Ho  !  thou  who  seekest  late  and  long 

A  License  from  the  Holy  Book 
For  brutal  lust  and  fiendish  wrong, 

Man  of  the  Pulpit,  look ! 
Lift  up  those  cold  and  atheist  eyes, 

This  ripe  fruit  of  thy  teaching  see  ; 
And  tell  us  how  to  heaven  will  rise 

The  incense  of  this  sacrifice  — 
This  blossom  of  the  gallows  tree ! 

Search  out  for  slavery's  hour  of  need 

Some  fitting  text  of  sacred  writ ; 
Give  heaven  the  credit  of  a  deed 

Which  shames  the  nether  pit. 
Kneel,  smooth  blasphemer,  unto  Him 

Whose  truth  is  on  thy  lips  a  lie ; 
Ask  that  His  bright  winged  cherubim 

May  bend  around  that  scaffold  grim 
To  guard  and  bless  and  sanctify. 

O  champion  of  the  people's  cause ! 

Suspend  thy  loud  and  vain  rebuke 
Of  foreign  wrong  and  Old  World's  laws, 

Man  of  the  Senate,  look  ! 
Was  this  the  promise  of  the  free, 

The  great  hope  of  our  early  time, 
That  slavery's  poison  vine  should  be 

Upborne  by  Freedom's  prayer-nursed  tree 
O'erclustered  with  such  fruits  of  crime  ? 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

Send  out  the  summons  East  and  West, 

And  South  and  North,  let  all  be  there 
Where  he  who  pitied  the  oppressed 

Swings  out  in  sun  and  air. 
Let  not  a  Democratic  hand 

The  grisly  hangman's  task  refuse  ; 
There  let  each  loyal  patriot  stand, 

Awaiting  slavery's  command, 
To  twist  the  rope  and  draw  the  noose! 

But  vain  is  irony  —  unmeet 

Its  cold  rebuke  for  deeds  which  start 
In  fiery  and  indignant  beat 

The  pulses  of  the  heart. 
Leave  studied  wit  and  guarded  phrase 

For  those  who  think  but  do  not  feel ; 
Let  men  speak  out  in  words  which  raise 

Where'er  they  fall,  an  answering  blaze 
Like  flints  which  strike  the  fire  from  steel. 

Still  let  a  mousing  priesthood  ply 

Their  garbled  text  and  gloss  of  sin, 
And  make  the  lettered  scroll  deny 

Its  living  soul  within : 
Still  let  the  place-fed,  titled  knave 

Plead  robbery's  right  with  purchased  lips, 
And  tell  us  that  our  fathers  gave 

For  Freedom's  pedestal,  a  slave, 
The  frieze  and  moulding,  chains  and  whips ! 

But  ye  who  own  that  Higher  Law 
Whose  tablets  in  the  heart  are  set, 

Speak  out  in  words  of  power  and  awe 
That  God  is  living  yet ! 


THE  SENTENCE  OF  JOHN  L.  BROWN  93 

Breathe  forth  once  more  those  tones  sublime 
Which  thrilled  the  burdened  prophet's  lyre, 

And  in  a  dark  and  evil  time 

Smote  down  on  Israel's  fast  of  crime 

And  gift  of  blood,  a  rain  of  fire  ! 

Oh,  not  for  us  the  graceful  lay 

To  whose  soft  measures  lightly  move 
The  footsteps  of  the  faun  and  fay, 

O'er-locked  by  mirth  and  love  ! 
But  such  a  stern  and  startling  strain 

As  Britain's  hunted  bards  flung  down 
From  Snowden  to  the  conquered  plain, 

Where  harshly  clanked  the  Saxon  chain, 
On  trampled  field  and  smoking  town. 

By  Liberty's  dishonored  name, 

By  man's  lost  hope  and  failing  trust, 
By  words  and  deeds  which  bow  with  shame 

Our  foreheads  to  the  dust, 
By  the  exulting  strangers'  sneer, 

Borne  to  us  from  the  Old  World's  thrones. 
And  by  their  victims'  grief  who  hear, 

In  sunless  mines  and  dungeons  drear, 
How  Freedom's  land  her  faith  disowns ! 

Speak  out  in  acts.    The  time  for  words 
Has  passed,  and  deeds  suffice  alone ; 

In  vain  against  the  clang  of  swords 
The  wailing  pipe  is  blown  ! 

Act,  act  in  God's  name,  while  ye  may ! 
Smite  from  the  church  her  leprous  limb ! 

Throw  open  to  the  light  of  day 


94 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


The  bondman's  cell,  and  break  away 
The  chains  the  state  has  bound  on  him ! 

Ho !  every  true  and  living  soul, 

To  Freedom's  perilled  altar  bear 
The  Freeman's  and  the  Christian's  whole 

Tongue,  pen,  and  vote,  and  prayer ! 
One  last,  great  battle  for  the  right  — 

One  short,  sharp  struggle  to  be  free  ! 
To  do  is  to  succeed  —  our  fight 

Is  waged  in  Heaven's  approving  sight ; 
The  smile  of  God  is  Victory. 
1844. 

TEXAS. 

VOICE  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  five  poems  immediately  following  indicate  the  intense  feel- 
ing of  the  friends  of  freedom  in  view  of  the  annexation  of  Texas, 
with  its  vast  territory  sufficient,  as  was  hoasted,  for  six  new  slave 
States. 

Up  the  hillside,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen  ; 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men ! 

Like  a  lion  growling  low, 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow, 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe  ; 

It  is  coming,  it  is  nigh ! 

Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by; 

On  your  own  free  thresholds  die. 


TEXAS 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires  ; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal-fires. 

From  Wachuset,  lone  and  bleak, 

Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak, 

Let  the  flame-tongued  heralds  speak. 

Oh,  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Eound  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 

Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow ! 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race, 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party,  perish  clan  ; 
Strike  together  while  ye  can, 
Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man. 

Like  that  angel's  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime, 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time ; 

With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth, 
Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both  : 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


"  What  though  Issachar  be  strong ! 
Ye  may  load  his  back  with  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long  : 

"  Patience  with  her  cup  o'errun, 
With  her  weary  thread  outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

"  Make  our  Union-bond  a  chain, 
Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom's  strain 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

"  Vainly  shall  your  sand-wrought  rope 
Bind  the  starry  cluster  up, 
Shattered  over  heaven's  blue  cope  ! 

"  Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays, 
Eather  than  eternal  haze, 
Clouding  o'er  the  full-orbed  blaze. 

"  Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom ; 
Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 
For  her  plough,  and  forge,  and  loom ; 

"  Take  your  slavery-blackened  vales  ; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

"  Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain  apart ; 
Break  the  Union's  mighty  heart ; 


TEXAS 


"  Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will ; 
Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow  and  deepen  still. 

"  With  your  bondman's  right  arm  bare, 
With  his  heart  of  black  despair, 
Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare  ! 

"  Onward  with  your  fell  design ; 
Dig  the  gulf  and  draw  the  line  : 
Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine  : 

"  Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and  this, 
Shall  ye  feel  your  helplessness. 

"  By  the  hearth,  and  in  the  bed, 
Shaken  by  a  look  or  tread, 
Ye  shall  own  a  guilty  dread. 

"  And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward  through  your  generous  soil 
Like  a  fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

"  Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow, 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow  ;  — 

"  And  when  vengeance  clouds  your  skies, 
Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 
As  the  lost  on  Paradise  ! 

VOL.  III.  7 


98  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


"  We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom's  strong  and  honest  hand  ; 

"  Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod, 
And  the  Pilgrim's  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers'  God !  " 

1844. 

TO  FANEUIL  HALL. 

Written  in  1844,  on  reading-  a  call  by  "  a  Massachusetts  Free- 
man ' '  for  a  meeting*  in  Faneuil  Hall  of  the  citizens  of  Massachu- 
setts, without  distinction  of  party,  opposed  to  the  annexation  of 
Texas,  and  the  aggressions  of  South  Carolina,  and  in  favor  of  de- 
cisive action  against  slavery. 

Men  !  if  manhood  still  ye  claim, 

If  the  Northern  pulse  can  thrill, 
Roused  by  wrong  or  stung  by  shame, 

Freely,  strongly  still ; 
Let  the  sounds  of  traffic  die : 

Shut  the  mill-gate,  leave  the  stall, 
Fling  the  axe  and  hammer  by  ; 

Throng  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Wrongs  which  freemen  never  brooked, 

Dangers  grim  and  fierce  as  they, 
Which,  like  couching  lions,  looked 

On  your  fathers'  way ; 
These  your  instant  zeal  demand, 

Shaking  with  their  earthquake-call 
Every  rood  of  Pilgrim  land, 

Ho,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 


TO  FANEU1L  HALL 


From  your  capes  and  sandy  bars, 

From  your  mountain-ridges  cold, 
Through  whose  pines  the  westering  stars 

Stoop  their  crowns  of  gold  ; 
Come,  and  with  your  footsteps  wake 

Echoes  from  that  holy  wall ; 
Once  again,  for  Freedom's  sake, 

Kock  your  fathers'  hall ! 

Up,  and  tread  beneath  your  feet 

Every  cord  by  party  spun : 
Let  your  hearts  together  beat 

As  the  heart  of  one. 
Banks  and  tariffs,  stocks  and  trade. 

Let  them  rise  or  let  them  fall : 
Freedom  asks  your  common  aid,  — 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Up,  and  let  each  voice  that  speaks 

Ring  from  thence  to  Southern  plains, 
Sharply  as  the  blow  which  breaks 

Prison-bolts  and  chains ! 
Speak  as  well  becomes  the  free : 

Dreaded  more  than  steel  or  ball, 
Shall  your  calmest  utterance  be, 

Heard  from  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Have  they  wronged  us  ?    Let  us  then 
Render  back  nor  threats  nor  prayers  ; 

Have  they  chained  our  free-born  men  ? 
Let  us  unchain  theirs  ! 

Up,  your  banner  leads  the  van, 
Blazoned,  "  Liberty  for  all !  " 


100  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

Finish  what  your  sires  began ! 
Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 


TO  MASSACHUSETTS. 

What  though  around  thee  blazes 

No  fiery  rallying  sign? 
From  all  thy  own  high  places, 

Give  heaven  the  light  of  thine  ! 
What  though  unthrilled,  unmoving, 

The  statesman  stand  apart, 
And  comes  no  warm  approving 

From  Mammon's  crowded  mart  ? 

Still,  let  the  land  be  shaken 

By  a  summons  of  thine  own ! 
By  all  save  truth  forsaken, 

Stand  fast  with  that  alone  ! 
Shrink  not  from  strife  unequal ! 

With  the  best  is  always  hope  ; 
And  ever  in  the  sequel 

God  holds  the  right  side  up ! 

But  when,  with  thine  uniting, 

Come  voices  long  and  loud, 
And  far-off  hills  are  writing 

Thy  fire-words  on  the  cloud ; 
When  from  Penobscot's  fountains 

A  deep  response  is  heard, 
And  across  the  Western  mountains 

Rolls  back  thy  rallying  word  ; 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE 


101 


Shall  thy  line  of  battle  falter, 

With  its  allies  just  in  view? 
Oh,  by  hearth  and  holy  altar, 

My  fatherland,  be  true  ! 
Fling  abroad  thy  scrolls  of  Freedom ! 

Speed  them  onward  far  and  fast ! 
Over  hill  and  valley  speed  them, 

Like  the  sibyl's  on  the  blast ! 

Lo !  the  Empire  State  is  shaking 

The  shackles  from  her  hand  ; 
With  the  rugged  North  is  waking 

The  level  sunset  land ! 
On  they  come,  the  free  battalions  ! 

East  and  West  and  North  they  come, 
And  the  heart-beat  of  the  millions 

Is  the  beat  of  Freedom's  drum. 

"  To  the  tyrant's  plot  no  favor ! 

No  heed  to  place-fed  knaves ! 
Bar  and  bolt  the  door  forever 

Against  the  land  of  slaves !  " 
Hear  it,  mother  Earth,  and  hear  it, 

The  heavens  above  us  spread ! 
The  land  is  roused,  —  its  spirit 

Was  sleeping,  but  not  dead ! 

1844. 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

God  bless  New  Hampshire  !  from  her  granite  peaks 
Once  more  the  voice  of  Stark  and  Langdon  speaks. 


102 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


The  long-bound  vassal  of  the  exulting  South 
For   very   shame   her   self-forged   chain  has 
broken  ; 

Torn  the  black  seal  of  slavery  from  her  mouth, 
And  in  the  clear  tones  of  her  old  time  spoken  ! 

Oh,  all  undreamed-of,  all  unhoped-for  changes  ! 
The  tyrant's  ally  proves  his  sternest  foe  ; 

To  all  his  biddings,  from  her  mountain  ranges, 
New  Hampshire  thunders  an  indignant  No  ! 

Who  is  it  now  despairs  ?    Oh,  faint  of  heart, 
Look  upward  to  those  Northern  mountains  cold, 
Flouted  by  Freedom's  victor-flag  unrolled, 

And  gather  strength  to  bear  a  manlier  part ! 

All  is  not  lost.    The  angel  of  God's  blessing- 
Encamps  with  Freedom  on  the  field  of  fight ; 

Still  to  her  banner,  day  by  day,  are  pressing, 
Unlooked-for  allies,  striking  for  the  right ! 

Courage,  then,  Northern  hearts  !    Be  firm,  be  true : 

What  one  brave  State  hath  done,  can  ye  not  also 
do? 

1845. 

THE  PINE-TREE. 

Written  on  hearing  that  the  Anti-Slavery  Resolves  of  Stephen 
C.  Phillips  had  been  rejected  by  the  Whig-  Convention  in  Fanenil 
Hall,  in  1846. 

Lift  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State's 
rusted  shield, 

Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine-Tree  on  our  ban- 
ner's tattered  field. 

Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their  Bibles 
round  the  board, 


THE  PINE-TREE 


103 


Answering  England's  royal  missive  with  a  firm, 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord  !  " 
Kise  again  for  home  and  freedom !  set  the  battle 

in  array ! 

What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we  their  sons 
must  do  to-day. 

Tell  us  not  of  banks  and  tariffs,  cease  your  paltry 
pedler  cries ; 

Shall  the  good  State  sink  her  honor  that  your 

gambling  stocks  may  rise  ? 
Would  ye  barter  man  for  cotton?    That  your 

gains  may  sum  up  higher, 
Must  we  kiss  the  feet  of  Moloch,  pass  our  children 

through  the  fire  ? 
Is  the  dollar  only  real  ?    God  and  truth  and  right 

a  dream  ? 

Weighed  against  your  lying  ledgers  must  our  man- 
hood kick  the  beam? 

O  my  God !  for  that  free  spirit,  which  of  old  in 
Boston  town 

Smote  the  Province  House  with  terror,  struck  the 

crest  of  Andros  down  ! 
For  another  strong-voiced  Adams  in  the  city's 

streets  to  cry, 
"  Up  for  God  and  Massachusetts !    Set  your  feet 

on  Mammon's  lie ! 
Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic,  spin  your  cotton's 

latest  pound, 
But  in  Heaven's  name  keep  your  honor,  keep  the 

heart  o'  the  Bay  State  sound !  " 


104  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Where 's  the  man  for  Massachusetts !    Where 's 

the  voice  to  speak  her  free  ? 
Where 's  the  hand  to  light  up  bonfires  from  her 

mountains  to  the  sea  ? 
Beats  her  Pilgrim  pulse  no  longer  ?   Sits  she  dumb 

in  her  despair  ? 
Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence  ?    Has  she  none 

to  do  and  dare  ? 
O  my  God !  for  one  right  worthy  to  lift  up  her 

rusted  shield, 
And  to  plant  again  the  Pine-Tree  in  her  banner's 

tattered  field ! 

1846. 

TO  A  SOUTHERN  STATESMAN. 

John  C.  Calhoun,  who  had  strongly  urged  the  extension  of  slave 
territory  by  the  annexation  of  Texas,  even  if  it  should  involve  a 
war  with  England,  was  unwilling  to  promote  the  acquisition  of 
Oregon,  which  would  enlarge  the  Northern  domain  of  freedom, 
and  pleaded  as  an  excuse  the  peril  of  foreign  complications  which 
he  had  defied  when  the  interests  of  slavery  were  involved. 

Is  this  thy  voice  whose  treble  notes  of  fear 
Wail  in  the  wind  ?    And  dost  thou  shake  to  hear, 
Actseon-like,  the  bay  of  thine  own  hounds, 
Spurning  the  leash,  and  leaping  o'er  their  bounds  ? 
Sore-baffled  statesman  !  when  thy  eager  hand, 
With  game  afoot,  unslipped  the  hungry  pack, 
To  hunt  down  Freedom  in  her  chosen  land, 
Hadst  thou  no  fear,  that,  erelong,  doubling  back, 
These  dogs  of  thine  might  snuff  on  Slavery's  track  ? 
Where 's  now  the  boast,  which  even  thy  guarded 
tongue, 

Cold,  calm,  and  proud,  in  the  teeth  o'  the  Senate 
flung, 


TO  A  SOUTHERN  STATESMAN  105 


O'er  the  fulfilment  of  thy  baleful  plan, 
Like  Satan's  triumph  at  the  fall  of  man  ? 
How  stood'st  thou  then,  thy  feet  on  Freedom 
planting, 

And  pointing  to  the  lurid  heaven  afar, 
Whence  all  could  see,  through  the  south  windows 
slanting, 

Crimson  as  blood,  the  beams  of  that  Lone  Star ! 
The  Fates  are  just ;  they  give  us  but  our  own  ; 
Nemesis  ripens  what  our  hands  have  sown. 
There  is  an  Eastern  story,  not  unknown, 
Doubtless,  to  thee,  of  one  whose  magic  skill 
Called  demons  up  his  water-jars  to  fill ; 
Deftly  and  silently,  they  did  his  will, 
But,  when  the  task  was  done,  kept  pouring  still. 
In  vain  with  spell  and  charm  the  wizard  wrought, 
Faster  and  faster  were  the  buckets  brought, 
Higher  and  higher  rose  the  flood  around, 
Till  the  fiends  clapped  their  hands  above  their 

master  drowned ! 
So,  Carolinian,  it  may  prove  with  thee, 
For  God  still  overrules  man's  schemes,  and  takes 
Craftiness  in  its  self-set  snare,  and  makes 
The  wrath  of  man  to  praise  Him.    It  may  be, 
That  the  roused  spirits  of  Democracy 
May  leave  to  freer  States  the  same  wide  door 
Through  which  thy  slave-cursed  Texas  entered  in, 
From  out  the  blood  and  fire,  the  wrong  and  sin, 
Of  the  stormed  city  and  the  ghastly  plain, 
Beat  by  hot  hail,  and  wet  with  bloody  rain, 
The  myriad-handed  pioneer  may  pour, 
And  the  wild  West  with  the  roused  North  combine 
And  heave  the  engineer  of  evil  with  his  mine. 
1846. 


106  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


AT  WASHINGTON. 

Suggested  by  a  visit  to  the  city  of  Washington,  in  the  12th 
month  of  1845. 

With  a  cold  and  wintry  noon-light 

On  its  roofs  and  steeples  shed, 
Shadows  weaving  with  the  sunlight 
From  the  gray  sky  overhead, 
Broadly,  vaguely,  all  around  me,  lies  the  half-built 
town  outspread. 

Through  this  broad  street,  restless  ever, 

Ebbs  and  flows  a  human  tide, 
Wave  on  wave  a  living  river  ; 
Wealth  and  fashion  side  by  side  ; 
Toiler,  idler,  slave  and  master,  in  the  same  quick 
current  glide. 

Underneath  yon  dome,  whose  coping 
Springs  above  them,  vast  and  tall, 
Grave  men  in  the  dust  are  groping 
For  the  largess,  base  and  small, 
Which  the  hand  of  Power  is  scattering,  crumbs 
which  from  its  table  fall. 

Base  of  heart !    They  vilely  barter 
Honor's  wealth  for  party's  place ; 
Step  by  step  on  Freedom's  charter 
Leaving  footprints  of  disgra.ce  ; 
For  to-day's  poor  pittance  turning  from  the  great 
hope  of  their  race. 


AT  WASHINGTON 


107 


Yet,  where  festal  lamps  are  throwing 

Glory  round  the  dancer's  hair, 
Gold-tressed,  like  an  angel's,  flowing 
Backward  on  the  sunset  air ; 
And  the  low  quick  pulse  of  music  beats  its  meas- 
ure sweet  and  rare : 

There  to-night  shall  woman's  glances, 

Star-like,  welcome  give  to  them  ; 
Fawning  fools  with  shy  advances 
Seek  to  touch  their  garments'  hem, 
With  the  tongue  of  flattery  glozing  deeds  which 
God  and  Truth  condemn. 

From  this  glittering  lie  my  vision 
Takes  a  broader,  sadder  range, 
Full  before  me  have  arisen 

Other  pictures  dark  and  strange ; 
From  the  parlor  to  the  prison  must  the  scene  and 
witness  change. 

Hark !  the  heavy  gate  is  swinging 

On  its  hinges,  harsh  and  slow ; 
One  pale  prison  lamp  is  flinging 
On  a  fearful  group  below 
Such  a  light  as  leaves  to  terror  whatsoe'er  it  does 
not  show. 

Pitying  God !    Is  that  a  woman 

On  whose  wrist  the  shackles  clash  ? 
Is  that  shriek  she  utters  human, 
Underneath  the  stinging  lash  ? 
Are  they  men  whose  eyes  of  madness  from  that  sad 
procession  flash  ? 


108  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

Still  the  dance  goes  gayly  onward ! 

What  is  it  to  Wealth  and  Pride 
That  without  the  stars  are  looking 
On  a  scene  which  earth  should  hide  ? 
That  the  slave-ship  lies  in  waiting,  rocking  on  Po- 
tomac's tide ! 

Vainly  to  that  mean  Ambition 

Which,  upon  a  rival's  fall, 
Winds  above  its  old  condition, 
With  a  reptile's  slimy  crawl, 
Shall  the  pleading  voice  of  sorrow,  shall  the  slave 
in  anguish  call. 

Vainly  to  the  child  of  Fashion, 

Giving  to  ideal  woe 
Graceful  luxury  of  compassion, 
Shall  the  stricken  mourner  go  ; 
Hateful  seems  the  earnest  sorrow,  beautiful  the 
hollow  show ! 

Nay,  my  words  are  all  too  sweeping : 

In  this  crowded  human  mart, 
Feeling  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping ; 
Man's  strong  will  and  woman's  heart, 
In  the  coming  strife  for  Freedom,  yet  shall  bear 
their  generous  part. 

And  from  yonder  sunny  valleys, 
Southward  in  the  distance  lost, 
Freedom  yet  shall  summon  allies 
Worthier  than  the  North  can  boast, 
With  the  Evil  by  their  hearth-stones  grappling  at 
severer  cost. 


AT  WASHINGTON 


109 


Now,  the  soul  alone  is  willing : 

Faint  the  heart  and  weak  the  knee ; 
And  as  yet  no  lip  is  thrilling 

With  the  mighty  words,  44  Be  Free !  " 
Tarrieth  long  the  land's  Good  Angel,  but  his  ad- 
vent is  to  be ! 

Meanwhile,  turning  from  the  revel 

To  the  prison-cell  my  sight, 
For  intenser  hate  of  evil, 
For  a  keener  sense  of  right, 
Shaking  off  thy  dust,  I  thank  thee,  City  of  the 
Slaves,  to-night ! 

44  To  thy  duty  now  and  ever  ! 

Dream  no  more  of  rest  or  stay : 
Give  to  Freedom's  great  endeavor 
All  thou  art  and  hast  to-day :  " 
Thus,  above  the  city's  murmur,  saith  a  Voice,  or 
seems  to  say. 

Ye  with  heart  and  vision  gifted 
To  discern  and  love  the  right, 
Whose  worn  faces  have  been  lifted 
To  the  slowly-growing  light, 
Where  from  Freedom's  sunrise   drifted  slowly 
back  the  murk  of  night ! 

Ye  who  through  long  years  of  trial 
Still  have  held  your  purpose  fast, 
While  a  lengthening  shade  the  dial 
From  the  westering  sunshine  cast, 
And  of  hope  each  hour's  denial  seemed  an  echo  of 
the  last ! 


110 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


O  my  brothers  !    O  my  sisters  ! 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  near, 
Gazing  with  me  down  the  vistas 
Of  a  sorrow  strange  and  drear ; 
Would  to  God  that  ye  were  listeners  to  the  Voice 
I  seem  to  hear  ! 

With  the  storm  above  us  driving, 

With  the  false  earth  mined  below, 
Who  shall  marvel  if  thus  striving 
We  have  counted  friend  as  foe ; 
Unto  one  another  giving  in  the  darkness  blow  for 
blow. 

Well  it  may  be  that  our  natures 

Have  grown  sterner  and  more  hard, 
And  the  freshness  of  their  features 
Somewhat  harsh  and  battle-scarred, 
And  their  harmonies  of  feeling  overtasked  and 
rudely  jarred. 

Be  it  so.    It  should  not  swerve  us 
From  a  purpose  true  and  brave  ; 
Dearer  Freedom's  rugged  service 
Than  the  pastime  of  the  slave  ; 
Better  is  the  storm  above  it  than  the  quiet  of 
the  grave. 

Let  us  then,  uniting,  bury 

All  our  idle  feuds  in  dust, 
And  to  future  conflicts  carry 

Mutual  faith  and  common  trust ; 
Always  he  who  most  forgiveth  in  his  brother  is 
most  just. 


THE  BRANDED  HAND  111 


From  the  eternal  shadow  rounding 

All  our  sun  and  starlight  here, 
Voices  of  our  lost  ones  sounding 
Bid  us  be  of  heart  and  cheer, 
Through  the  silence,  down  the  spaces,  falling  on 
the  inward  ear. 

Know  we  not  our  dead  are  looking 

Downward  with  a  sad  surprise, 
All  our  strife  of  words  rebuking 
With  their  mild  and  loving  eyes  ? 
Shall  we  grieve  the  holy  angels  ?    Shall  we  cloud 
their  blessed  skies  ? 

Let  us  draw  their  mantles  o'er  us 
Which  have  fallen  in  our  way ; 
Let  us  do  the  work  before  us, 
Cheerly,  bravely,  while  we  may, 
Ere  the  long  night-silence  cometh,  and  with  us  it  is 
not  day ! 

THE  BRANDED  HAND. 

Captain  Jonathan  Walker,  of  Harwich,  Mass.,  was  solicited  by 
several  fugitive  slaves  at  Pensacola,  Florida,  to  carry  them  in  his 
vessel  to  the  British  West  Indies.  Although  well  aware  of  the 
great  hazard  of  the  enterprise  he  attempted  to  comply  with  the 
request,  but  was  seized  at  sea  by  an  American  vessel,  consigned 
to  the  authorities  at  Key  West,  and  thence  sent  back  to  Pensa- 
cola, where,  after  a  long  and  rigorous  confinement  in  prison,  he 
was  tried  and  sentenced  to  be  branded  on  his  right  hand  with  the 
letters  "S.  S."  (slave-stealer)  and  amerced  in  a  heavy  fine. 

Welcome  home  again,  brave  seaman !  with  thy 

thoughtful  brow  and  gray, 
And  the  old  heroic  spirit  of  our  earlier,  better  day  ; 


112  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


With  that  front  of  calm  endurance,  on  whose 

steady  nerve  in  vain 
Pressed  the  iron  of  the  prison,  smote  the  fiery 

shafts  of  pain ! 

Is  the  tyrant's  brand  upon  thee  ?    Did  the  brutal 

cravens  aim 

To  make  God's  truth  thy  falsehood,  His  holiest 

work  thy  shame  ? 
When,  all  blood-quenched,  from  the  torture  the 

iron  was  withdrawn, 
How  laughed  their  evil  angel  the  baffled  fools  to 

scorn ! 

They  change  to  wrong  the  duty  which  God  hath 
written  out 

On  the  great  heart  of  humanity,  too  legible  for 
doubt ! 

They,  the  loathsome  moral  lepers,  blotched  from 

footsole  up  to  crown, 
Give  to  shame  what  God  hath  given  unto  honor 

and  renown ! 

Why,  that  brand  is  highest  honor  !  than  its  traces 
never  yet 

Upon  old  armorial  hatchments  was  a  prouder  blazon 

set ; 

And  thy  unborn  generations,  as  they  tread  our 

rocky  strand, 
Shall  tell  with  pride  the  story  of  their  father's 

branded  hand ! 

As  the  Templar  home  was  welcome,  bearing  back 
from  Syrian  wars 


THE  BRANDED  HAND  113 

The  scars  of  Arab  lances  and  of  Paynim  scimi- 
tars, 

The  pallor  of  the  prison,  and  the  shackle's  crimson 
span, 

So  we  meet  thee,  so  we  greet  thee,  truest  friend  of 
God  and  man. 

He  suffered  for  the  ransom  of  the  dear  Eedeemer's 
grave, 

Thou  for  His  living  presence  in  the  bound  and 

bleeding  slave ; 
He  for  a  soil  no  longer  by  the  feet  of  angels 

trod, 

Thou  for  the  true  Shechinah,  the  present  home  of 
God ! 

For,  while  the  jurist,  sitting  with  the  slave-whip 
o'er  him  swung, 

From  the  tortured  truths  of  freedom  the  lie  of 
slavery  wrung, 

And  the  solemn  priest  to  Moloch,  on  each  God- 
deserted  shrine, 

Broke  the  bondman's  heart  for  bread,  poured  the 
bondman's  blood  for  wine  ; 

While  the  multitude  in  blindness  to  a  far-off  Sav- 
iour knelt, 

And  spurned,  the  while,  the  temple  where  a  pres- 
ent Saviour  dwelt ; 

Thou  beheld'st  Him  in  the  task-field,  in  the  prison 
shadows  dim, 

And  thy  mercy  to  the  bondman,  it  was  mercy  unto 
Him! 

vol.  m.  8 


114 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


In  thy  lone  and  long  night-watches,  sky  above  and 
wave  below, 

Thou  didst  learn  a  higher  wisdom  than  the  bab- 
bling schoolmen  know ; 

God's  stars  and  silence  taught  thee,  as  His  angels 
only  can, 

That  the  one  sole  sacred  thing  beneath  the  cope  of 
heaven  is  Man ! 

That  he  who  treads  profanely  on  the  scrolls  of  law 
and  creed, 

In  the  depth  of  God's  great  goodness  may  find 

mercy  in  his  need  ; 
But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  soul  with  chain 

and  rod, 

And  herds  with  lower  natures  the  awful  form  of 
God! 

Then  lift  that  manly  right-hand,  bold  ploughman 
of  the  wave ! 

Its  branded  palm  shall  prophesy,  "  Salvation  to 
the  Slave!" 

Hold  up  its  fire-wrought  language,  that  whoso 

reads  may  feel 
His  heart  swell  strong  within  him,  his  sinews 

change  to  steel. 

Hold  it  up  before  our  sunshine,  up  against  our 

Northern  air ; 
Ho !  men  of  Massachusetts,  for  the  love  of  God, 

look  there ! 


THE  FREED  ISLANDS  115 


Take  it  henceforth  for  your  standard,  like  the 

Bruce's  heart  of  yore, 
In  the  dark  strife  closing  round  ye,  let  that  hand 

be  seen  before ! 

And  the  masters  of  the  slave-land  shall  tremble  at 
that  sign, 

When  it  points  its  finger  Southward  along  the 
Puritan  line : 

Can  the  craft  of  State  avail  them  ?  Can  a  Christ- 
less  church  withstand, 

In  the  van  of  Freedom's  onset,  the  coming  of  that 
hand  ? 

1846. 

THE  FREED  ISLANDS. 

Written  for  the  anniversary  celebration  of  the  first  of  August, 
at  Milton,  1846. 

A  few  brief  years  have  passed  away 

Since  Britain  drove  her  million  slaves 
Beneath  the  tropic's  fiery  ray  : 
God  willed  their  freedom  ;  and  to-day 
Life  blooms  above  those  island  graves ! 

He  spoke  !  across  the  Carib  Sea, 

We  heard  the  clash  of  breaking  chains, 

And  felt  the  heart-throb  of  the  free, 

The  first,  strong  pulse  of  liberty 

Which  thrilled  along  the  bondman's  veins. 

Though  long  delayed,  and  far,  and  slow, 
The  Briton's  triumph  shall  be  ours : 


116  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Wears  slavery  here  a  prouder  brow 
Than  that  which  twelve  short  years  ago 
Scowled  darkly  from  her  island  bowers  ? 

Mighty  alike  for  good  or  ill 

With  mother-land,  we  fully  share 

The  Saxon  strength,  the  nerve  of  steel, 

The  tireless  energy  of  will, 

The  power  to  do,  the  pride  to  dare. 

What  she  has  done  can  we  not  do  ? 

Our  hour  and  men  are  both  at  hand ; 
The  blast  which  Freedom's  angel  blew 
O'er  her  green  islands,  echoes  through 

Each  valley  of  our  forest  land. 

Hear  it,  old  Europe  !  we  have  sworn 

The  death  of  slavery.    When  it  falls, 
Look  to  your  vassals  in  their  turn, 
Your  poor  dumb  millions,  crushed  and  worn, 
Your  prisons  and  your  palace  walls  ! 

O  kingly  mockers  !  scoffing  show 

What  deeds  in  Freedom's  name  we  do  ; 
Yet  know  that  every  taunt  ye  throw 
Across  the  waters,  goads  our  slow 

Progression  towards  the  right  and  true. 

Not  always  shall  your  outraged  poor, 

Appalled  by  democratic  crime, 
Grind  as  their  fathers  ground  before ; 
The  hour  which  sees  our  prison  door 

Swing  wide  shall  be  their  triumph  time. 


A  LETTER 


117 


On  then,  my  brothers  !  every  blow 

Ye  deal  is  felt  the  wide  earth  through; 
Whatever  here  uplifts  the  low 
Or  humbles  Freedom's  hateful  foe, 

Blesses  the  Old  World  through  the  New. 

Take  heart !    The  promised  hour  draws  near ; 

I  hear  the  downward  beat  of  wings, 
And  Freedom's  trumpet  sounding  clear  : 
"  J oy  to  the  people  !  woe  and  fear 

To  new-world  tyrants,  old-world  kings !  " 


A  LETTER. 

Supposed  to  be  written  by  the  chairman  of  the  "  Central 
Clique  "  at  Concord,  N.  H.,  to  the  Hon.  M.  N.,  Jr.,  at  Washing- 
ton, giving  the  result  of  the  election. 

The  following  verses  were  published  in  the  Boston  Chronotype 
in  1846.  They  refer  to  the  contest  in  New  Hampshire,  which 
resulted  in  the  defeat  of  the  pro-slavery  Democracy,  and  in  the 
election  of  John  P.  Hale  to  the  United  States  Senate.  Although 
their  authorship  was  not  acknowledged,  it  was  strongly  suspected- 
They  furnish  a  specimen  of  the  way,  on  the  whole  rather  good- 
natured,  in  which  the  liberty-lovers  of  half  a  century  ago  an- 
swered the  social  and  political  outlawry  and  mob  violence  to 
which  they  were  subjected. 

'T  is  over,  Moses  !    All  is  lost ! 

I  hear  the  bells  a-ringing  ; 
Of  Pharaoh  and  his  Eed  Sea  host 

I  hear  the  Free- Wills  singing.4 
We  're  routed,  Moses,  horse  and  foot, 

If  there  be  truth  in  figures, 
With  Federal  Whigs  in  hot  pursuit, 

And  Hale,  and  all  the  "  niggers." 


118 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Alack  !  alas !  this  month  or  more 

We 've  felt  a  sad  foreboding ; 
Our  very  dreams  the  burden  bore 

Of  central  cliques  exploding  ; 
Before  our  eyes  a  furnace  shone, 

Where  heads  of  dough  were  roasting, 
And  one  we  took  to  be  your  own 

The  traitor  Hale  was  toasting ! 

Our  Belknap  brother 5  heard  with  awe 

The  Congo  minstrels  playing ; 
At  Pittsfield  Eeuben  Leavitt 6  saw 

The  ghost  of  Storrs  a-praying  ; 
And  Carroll's  woods  were  sad  to  see, 

With  black- winged  crows  a-darting  ; 
And  Black  Snout  looked  on  Ossipee, 

New-glossed  with  Day  and  Martin. 

We  thought  the  "  Old  Man  of  the  Notch  " 

His  face  seemed  changing  wholly  — 
His  lips  seemed  thick  ;  his  nose  seemed  flat ; 

His  misty  hair  looked  woolly  ; 
And  Coos  teamsters,  shrieking,  fled 

From  the  metamorphosed  figure. 
"  Look  there  !  "  they  said,  "  the  Old  Stone  Head 

Himself  is  turning  nigger  !  " 

The  schoolhouse,7  out  of  Canaan  hauled 
Seemed  turning  on  its  track  again, 

And  like  a  great  swamp-turtle  crawled 
To  Canaan  village  back  again, 

Shook  off  the  mud  and  settled  flat 
Upon  its  underpinning ; 


A  LETTER 


A  nigger  on  its  ridge-pole  sat, 
From  ear  to  ear  a-grinning. 

Gray  H  d  heard  o'  nights  the  sound 

Of  rail-cars  onward  faring; 
Right  over  Democratic  ground 

The  iron  horse  came  tearing. 
A  flag  waved  o'er  that  spectral  train, 

As  high  as  Pittsfield  steeple  ; 
Its  emblem  was  a  broken  chain ; 

Its  motto  :  "  To  the  people !  " 

I  dreamed  that  Charley  took  his  bed, 

With  Hale  for  his  physician ; 
His  daily  dose  an  old  "  unread 

And  unref erred  "  petition.8 
There  Hayes  and  Tuck  as  nurses  sat, 

As  near  as  near  could  be,  man ; 
They  leeched  him  with  the  "  Democrat ;  " 

They  blistered  with  the  "  Freeman." 

Ah  !  grisly  portents  !    What  avail 

Your  terrors  of  forewarning? 
We  wake  to  find  the  nightmare  Hale 

Astride  our  breasts  at  morning ! 
From  Portsmouth  lights  to  Indian  stream 

Our  foes  their  throats  are  trying ; 
The  very  factory-spindles  seem 

To  mock  us  while  they  're  flying. 

The  hills  have  bonfires ;  in  our  streets 

Flags  flout  us  in  our  faces ; 
The  newsboys,  peddling  off  their  sheets, 

Are  hoarse  with  our  disgraces. 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


In  vain  we  turn,  for  gibing  wit 

And  shoutings  follow  after, 
As  if  old  Kearsarge  had  split 

His  granite  sides  with  laughter  ! 

What  boots  it  that  we  pelted  out 

The  anti-slavery  women,9 
And  bravely  strewed  their  hall  about 

With  tattered  lace  and  trimming  ? 
Was  it  for  such  a  sad  reverse 

Our  mobs  became  peacemakers, 
And  kept  their  tar  and  wooden  horse 

For  Englishmen  and  Quakers  ? 

For  this  did  shifty  Atherton 

Make  gag  rules  for  the  Great  House  ? 
Wiped  we  for  this  our  feet  upon 

Petitions  in  our  State  House  ? 
Plied  we  for  this  our  axe  of  doom, 

No  stubborn  traitor  sparing, 
Who  scoffed  at  our  opinion  loom, 

And  took  to  homespun  wearing  ? 

Ah,  Moses  !  hard  it  is  to  scan 

These  crooked  providences, 
Deducing  from  the  wisest  plan 

The  saddest  consequences ! 
Strange  that,  in  trampling  as  was  meet 

The  nigger-men's  petition, 
We  sprung  a  mine  beneath  our  feet 

Which  opened  up  perdition. 

How  goodly,  Moses,  was  the  game 
In  which  we 've  long  been  actors, 


A  LETTER 


121 


Supplying  freedom  with  the  name 

And  slavery  with  the  practice  ! 
Our  smooth  words  fed  the  people's  mouth, 

Their  ears  our  party  rattle ; 
We  kept  them  headed  to  the  South, 

As  drovers  do  their  cattle. 

But  now  our  game  of  politics 

The  world  at  large  is  learning  ; 
And  men  grown  gray  in  all  our  tricks 

State's  evidence  are  turning. 
Votes  and  preambles  subtly  spun 

They  cram  with  meanings  louder, 
And  load  the  Democratic  gun 

With  abolition  powder. 

The  ides  of  June  !    Woe  worth  the  day 

When,  turning  all  things  over, 
The  traitor  Hale  shall  make  his  hay 

From  Democratic  clover ! 
Who  then  shall  take  him  in  the  law, 

Who  punish  crime  so  flagrant  ? 
Whose  hand  shall  serve,  whose  pen  shall  draw, 

A  writ  against  that  "  vagrant "  ? 

Alas  !  no  hope  is  left  us  here, 

And  one  can  only  pine  for 
The  envied  place  of  overseer 

Of  slaves  in  Carolina  ! 
Pray,  Moses,  give  Calhoun  the  wink, 

And  see  what  pay  he 's  giving  ! 
We 've  practised  long  enough,  we  think, 

To  know  the  art  of  driving. 


122 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


And  for  the  faithful  rank  and  file, 

Who  know  their  proper  stations, 
Perhaps  it  may  be  worth  their  while 

To  try  the  rice  plantations. 
Let  Hale  exult,  let  Wilson  scoff, 

To  see  us  southward  scamper ; 
The  slaves,  we  know,  are  "  better  off 

Than  laborers  in  New  Hampshire  !  " 


LINES 

FROM  A  LETTER  TO  A  YOUNG  CLERICAL  FRIEND. 

A  stkength  Thy  service  cannot  tire, 
A  faith  which  doubt  can  never  dim, 

A  heart  of  love,  a  lip  of  fire, 

O  Freedom's  God  !  be  Thou  to  him  ! 

Speak  through  him  words  of  power  and  fear, 
As  through  Thy  prophet  bards  of  old, 

And  let  a  scornful  people  hear 

Once  more  Thy  Sinai-thunders  rolled. 

For  lying  lips  Thy  blessing  seek, 

And  hands  of  blood  are  raised  to  Thee, 

And  on  Thy  children,  crushed  and  weak, 
The  oppressor  plants  his  kneeling  knee. 

Let  then,  O  God  !  Thy  servant  dare 
Thy  truth  in  all  its  power  to  tell, 

Unmask  the  priestly  thieves,  and  tear 
The  Bible  from  the  grasp  of  hell ! 


DANIEL  NEALL 


123 


From  hollow  rite  and  narrow  span 
Of  law  and  sect  by  Thee  released, 

Oh,  teach  him  that  the  Christian  man 
Is  holier  than  the  Jewish  priest. 

Chase  back  the  shadows,  gray  and  old, 
Of  the  dead  ages,  from  his  way, 

And  let  his  hopeful  eyes  behold 
The  dawn  of  Thy  millennial  day ; 

That  day  when  fettered  limb  and  mind 
Shall  know  the  truth  which  maketh  free, 

And  he  alone  who  loves  his  kind 

Shall,  childlike,  claim  the  love  of  Thee ! 

DANIEL  NEALL. 

Dr.  Neall,  a  worthy  disciple  of  that  venerated  philanthropist, 
Warner  Mifflin,  whom  the  Girondist  statesman,  Jean  Pierre 
Brissot,  pronounced  "an  angel  of  mercy,  the  best  man  he  ever 
knew,"  was  one  of  the  noble  band  of  Pennsylvania  abolitionists, 
whose  bravery  was  equalled  only  by  their  gentleness  and  tender- 
ness. He  presided  at  the  great  anti-slavery  meeting  in  Pennsyl- 
vania Hall,  May  17,  1838,  when  the  Hall  was  surrounded  by  a 
furious  mob.  I  was  standing  near  him  while  the  glass  of  the 
windows  broken  by  missiles  showered  over  him,  and  a  deputation 
from  the  rioters  forced  its  way  to  the  platform,  and  demanded 
that  the  meeting  should  be  closed  at  once.  Dr.  Neall  drew  up 
his  tall  form  to  its  utmost  height. 

"I  am  here,"  he  said,  "  the  president  of  this  meeting,  and  I  will 
be  torn  in  pieces  before  I  leave  my  place  at  your  dictation.  Go 
back  to  those  who  sent  you.  I  shall  do  my  duty."  Some  years 
after,  while  visiting  his  relatives  in  his  native  State  of  Delaware, 
he  was  dragged  from  the  house  of  his  friends  by  a  mob  of  slave- 
holders and  brutally  maltreated.  He  bore  it  like  a  martyr  of  the 
old  times ;  and  when  released,  told  his  persecutors  that  he  for- 
gave them,  for  it  was  not  they  but  Slavery  which  had  done  the 


124  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


wrong.  If  they  should  ever  be  in  Philadelphia  and  needed  hospi- 
tality or  aid,  let  them  call  on  him. 

I. 

Fkiend  of  the  Slave,  and  yet  the  friend  of  all ; 
Lover  of  peace,  yet  ever  foremost  when 
The  need  of  battling  Freedom  called  for  men 
To  plant  the  banner  on  the  outer  wall ; 
Gentle  and  kindly,  ever  at  distress 
Melted  to  more  than  woman's  tenderness, 
Yet  firm  and  steadfast,  at  his  duty's  post 
Fronting  the  violence  of  a  maddened  host, 
Like  some  gray  rock  from  which  the  waves  are 
tossed ! 

Knowing  his  deeds  of  love,  men  questioned  not 
The  faith  of  one  whose  walk  and  word  were 
right ; 

Who  tranquilly  in  Life's  great  task-field  wrought, 
And,  side  by  side  with  evil,  scarcely  caught 

A  stain  upon  his  pilgrim  garb  of  white : 
Prompt  to  redress  another's  wrong,  his  own 
Leaving  to  Time  and  Truth  and  Penitence  alone. 

II. 

Such  was  our  friend.    Formed  on  the  good  old 
plan, 

A  true  and  brave  and  downright  honest  man ! 
He  blew  no  trumpet  in  the  market-place, 
Nor  in  the  church  with  hypocritic  face 
Supplied  with  cant  the  lack  of  Christian  grace ; 
Loathing  pretence,  he  did  with  cheerful  will 
"What  others  talked  of  while  their  hands  were  still ; 
And,  while  "  Lord,  Lord !  "  the  pious  tyrants  cried, 
Who,  in  the  poor,  their  Master  crucified, 


SONG  OF  SLAVES  IN  THE  DESERT  125 


His  daily  prayer,  far  better  understood 
In  acts  than  words,  was  simply  doing  good. 
So  calm,  so  constant  was  his  rectitude, 
That  by  his  loss  alone  we  know  its  worth, 
And  feel  how  true  a  man  has  walked  with  us  on  earth. 
6th,  6th  month,  1846. 

SONG  OF  SLAVES  IN  THE  DESERT. 

"  Sebah,  Oasis  of  Fezzan,  10th  March,  1846.  —  This  evening* 
the  female  slaves  were  unusually  excited  in  singing-,  and  I  had  the 
curiosity  to  ask  my  negro  servant,  Said,  what  they  were  singing 
about.  As  many  of  them  were  natives  of  his  own  country,  he 
had  no  difficulty  in  translating  the  Mandara  or  Bornou  language. 
I  had  often  asked  the  Moors  to  translate  their  songs  for  me,  but 
got  no  satisfactory  account  from  them.  Said  at  first  said,  '  Oh, 
they  sing  of  Rubee  '  (God).  '  What  do  you  mean  ?  '  I  replied, 
impatiently.  '  Oh,  don't  you  know  ?  '  he  continued,  '  they  asked 
God  to  give  them  their  Atka  ?  '  (certificate  of  freedom).  I  in- 
quired, 'Is  that  all?'  Said:  'No;  they  say,  "Where  are  we 
going  ?  The  world  is  large.  O  God  !  Where  are  we  going  ?  O 
God  !  "  '  I  inquired,  '  What  else  ?  '  Said :  '  They  remember  their 
country,  Bornou,  and  say,  "Bornou  was  a  pleasant  country,  full  of 
all  good  things ;  but  this  is  a  bad  country,  and  we  are  miserable  !  "  ' 
'  Do  they  say  anything  else  ? '  Said  :  '  No  ;  they  repeat  these 
words  over  and  over  again,  and  add,  "  0  God  !  give  us  our  Atka, 
and  let  us  return  again  to  our  dear  home."  ' 

"  I  am  not  surprised  I  got  little  satisfaction  when  I  asked  the 
Moors  about  the  songs  of  their  slaves.  Who  will  say  that  the 
above  words  are  not  a  very  appropriate  song  ?  What  could  have 
been  more  congenially  adapted  to  their  then  wof  ul  condition  ?  It 
is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  these  poor  bondwomen  cheer  up  their 
hearts,  in  their  long,  lonely,  and  painful  wanderings  over  the  des- 
ert, with  words  and  sentiments  like  these  ;  but  I  have  often  ob- 
served that  their  fatigue  and  sufferings  were  too  great  for  them  to 
strike  up  this  melancholy  dirge,  and  many  days  their  plaintive 
strains  never  broke  over  the  silence  of  the  desert."  —  Richard- 
son's Journal  in  Africa. 


Where  are  we  going  ?  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Lord  of  peoples,  lord  of  lands, 
Look  across  these  shining  sands, 
Through  the  furnace  of  the  noon, 
Through  the  white  light  of  the  moon. 
Strong  the  Ghiblee  wind  is  blowing, 
Strange  and  large  the  world  is  growing 
Speak  and  tell  us  where  we  are  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

Bornou  land  was  rich  and  good, 
Wells  of  water,  fields  of  food, 
Dourra  fields,  and  bloom  of  beaD, 
And  the  palm-tree  cool  and  green  : 
Bornou  land  we  see  no  longer, 
Here  we  thirst  and  here  we  hunger, 
Here  the  Moor-man  smites  in  anger : 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee? 

When  we  went  from  Bornou  land, 
We  were  like  the  leaves  and  sand, 
We  were  many,  we  are  few  ; 
Life  has  one,  and  death  has  two : 
Whitened  bones  our  path  are  showing, 
Thou  All-seeing,  thou  All-knowing ! 
Hear  us,  tell  us,  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

Moons  of  marches  from  our  eyes 
Bornou  land  behind  us  lies  ; 
Stranger  round  us  day  by  day 
Bends  the  desert  circle  gray ; 
Wild  the  waves  of  sand  are  flowing, 
Hot  the  winds  above  them  blowing,  — 


TO  DELAWARE 


127 


Lord  of  all  things  !  where  are  we  going  ? 
Where  are  we  going,  Kubee  ? 

We  are  weak,  but  Thou  art  strong ; 
Short  our  lives,  but  Thine  is  long ; 
We  are  blind,  but  Thou  hast  eyes ; 
We  are  fools,  but  Thou  art  wise  ! 
Thou,  our  morrow's  pathway  knowing 
Through  the  strange  world  round  us  growing, 
Hear  us,  tell  us  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Eubee  ? 

1847. 

TO  DELAWAKE. 

Written  during-  the  discussion  in  the  Legislature  of  that  State, 
in  the  winter  of  1846-47,  of  a  bill  for  the  abolition  of  slavery. 

Thkice  welcome  to  thy  sisters  of  the  East, 
To  the  strong  tillers  of  a  rugged  home, 

With  spray-wet  locks  to  Northern  winds  released, 
And  hardy  feet  o'erswept  by  ocean's  foam ; 

And  to  the  young  nymphs  of  the  golden  West, 
Whose  harvest  mantles,  fringed  with  prairie 
bloom, 

Trail  in  the  sunset,  —  O  redeemed  and  blest, 
To  the  warm  welcome  of  thy  sisters  come ! 

Broad  Pennsylvania,  down  her  sail-white  bay 
Shall  give  thee  joy,  and  Jersey  from  her  plains, 

And  the  great  lakes,  where  echo,  free  alway, 

Moaned  never  shoreward  with  the  clank  of 
chains, 

Shall  weave  new  sun-bows  in  their  tossing  spray, 
And  all  their  waves  keep  grateful  holiday. 


128  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


And,  smiling  on  thee  through  her  mountain  rains, 
Vermont  shall  bless  thee ;  and  the  granite  peaks, 

And  vast  Katahdin  o'er  his  woods,  shall  wear 

Their  snow-crowns  brighter  in  the  cold,  keen  air  ; 
And  Massachusetts,  with  her  rugged  cheeks 

O'errun  with  grateful  tears,  shall  turn  to  thee, 
"When,  at  thy  bidding,  the  electric  wire 
Shall  tremble  northward  with  its  words  of  fire ; 

Glory  and  praise  to  God !  another  State  is  free ! 
1847. 

YOEKTOWN. 

Dr.  Thacher,  surgeon  in  Seammel's  regiment,  in  his  description 
of  the  siege  of  Yorktown,  says :  "  The  labor  on  the  Virginia  plan- 
tations is  performed  altogether  by  a  species  of  the  human  race 
cruelly  wrested  from  their  native  country,  and  doomed  to  perpet- 
ual bondage,  while  their  masters  are  manfully  contending  for 
freedom  and  the  natural  rights  of  man.  Such  is  the  inconsistency 
of  human  nature."  Eighteen  hundred  slaves  were  found  at 
Yorktown,  after  its  surrender,  and  restored  to  their  masters. 
Well  was  it  said  by  Dr.  Barnes,  in  his  late  work  on  Slavery: 
"No  slave  was  any  nearer  his  freedom  after  the  surrender  of 
Yorktown  than  when  Patrick  Henry  first  taught  the  notes  of  lib- 
erty to  echo  among  the  hills  and  vales  of  Virginia." 

From  Yorktown's  ruins,  ranked  and  still, 
Two  lines  stretch  far  o'er  vale  and  hill : 
Who  curbs  his  steed  at  head  of  one  ? 
Hark  !  the  low  murmur :  Washington  ! 
Who  bends  his  keen,  approving  glance, 
Where  down  the  gorgeous  line  of  France 
Shine  knightly  star  and  plume  of  snow  ? 
Thou  too  art  victor,  Rochambeau ! 


The  earth  which  bears  this  calm  array 
Shook  with  the  war-charge  yesterday, 


YORKTOWN 


129 


Ploughed  deep  with  hurrying  hoof  and  wheel, 
Shot-sown  and  bladed  thick  with  steel ; 
October's  clear  and  noonday  sun 
Paled  in  the  breath-smoke  of  the  gun, 
And  down  night's  double  blackness  fell, 
Like  a  dropped  star,  the  blazing  shell. 

Now  all  is  hushed :  the  gleaming  lines 
Stand  moveless  as  the  neighboring  pines ; 
While  through  them,  sullen,  grim,  and  slow, 
The  conquered  hosts  of  England  go  : 
O'Hara's  brow  belies  his  dress, 
Gay  Tarleton's  troop  rides  bannerless : 
Shout,  from  thy  fired  and  wasted  homes, 
Thy  scourge,  Virginia,  captive  comes  ! 

Nor  thou  alone  :  with  one  glad  voice 
Let  all  thy  sister  States  rejoice  ; 
Let  Freedom,  in  whatever  clime 
She  waits  with  sleepless  eye  her  time, 
Shouting  from  cave  and  mountain  wood 
Make  glad  her  desert  solitude, 
While  they  who  hunt  her  quail  with  fear ; 
The  New  World's  chain  lies  broken  here ! 

But  who  are  they,  who,  cowering,  wait 
Within  the  shattered  fortress  gate  ? 
Dark  tillers  of  Virginia's  soil, 
Classed  with  the  battle's  common  spoil, 
With  household  stuffs,  and  fowl,  and  swine, 
With  Indian  weed  and  planters'  wine, 
With  stolen  beeves,  and  foraged  corn,  — 
Are  they  not  men,  Virginian  born  ? 

vol.  in.  9 


130  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Oh,  veil  your  faces,  young  and  brave  ! 
Sleep,  Scammel,  in  thy  soldier  grave  ! 
Sons  of  the  Northland,  ye  who  set 
Stout  hearts  against  the  bayonet, 
And  pressed  with  steady  footfall  near 
The  moated  battery's  blazing  tier, 
Turn  your  scarred  faces  from  the  sight, 
Let  shame  do  homage  to  the  right ! 

Lo !  fourscore  years  have  passed ;  and  where 

The  Gallic  bugles  stirred  the  air, 

And,  through  breached  batteries,  side  by  side, 

To  victory  stormed  the  hosts  allied, 

And  brave  foes  grounded,  pale  with  pain, 

The  arms  they  might  not  lift  again, 

As  abject  as  in  that  old  day 

The  slave  still  toils  his  life  away. 

Oh,  fields  still  green  and  fresh  in  story, 

Old  days  of  pride,  old  names  of  glory, 

Old  marvels  of  the  tongue  and  pen, 

Old  thoughts  which  stirred  the  hearts  of  men, 

Ye  spared  the  wrong ;  and  over  all 

Behold  the  avenging  shadow  fall ! 

Your  world-wide  honor  stained  with  shame,  — 

Your  freedom's  self  a  hollow  name  ! 

Where 's  now  the  flag  of  that  old  war  ? 
Where  flows  its  stripe  ?   Where  burns  its  star  ? 
Bear  witness,  Palo  Alto's  day, 
Dark  Vale  of  Palms,  red  Monterey, 
Where  Mexic  Freedom,  young  and  weak, 
Fleshes  the  Northern  eagle's  beak ; 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE 


Symbol  of  terror  and  despair, 

Of  chains  and  slaves,  go  seek  it  there  ! 

Laugh,  Prussia,  midst  thy  iron  ranks  ! 
Laugh,  Eussia,  from  thy  Neva's  banks  ! 
Brave  sport  to  see  the  fledgling  born 
Of  Freedom  by  its  parent  torn  ! 
Safe  now  is  Speilberg's  dungeon  cell, 
Safe  drear  Siberia's  frozen  hell : 
With  Slavery's  flag  o'er  both  unrolled, 
What  of  the  New  World  fears  the  Old? 
1847. 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE. 

O  Mothee  Earth  !  upon  thy  lap 

Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 
Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 

Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning ; 
Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 

Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 
And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 

Saw  autumn's  sunset  glowing, 
He  sleeps,  still  looking  to  the  west, 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune  !  in  himself 

All  moods  of  mind  contrasting,  — 
The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 

The  scorn  like  lightning  blasting ; 
The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 

Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 
The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 

Of  hatred  scarcely  human  ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond  shower5 

From  lips  of  life-long  sadness  ; 
Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 

Upon  a  ground  of  madness  ; 
And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 

A  classic  beauty  throwing, 
And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 

Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  feared  him  :  each  in  turn 
Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 

As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 
And  spectral  finger  pointed. 

Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 
With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE  133 


And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 
The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 
While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion! 

Still  through  each  change  of  fortune  strange, 

Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 
His  loving  faith  in  Mother-land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning ; 
By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  tide, 

Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him, 
He  heard  her  rivers'  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 

No  false  and  vain  pretences, 
Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  Scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 
Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves  ;  yet  kept  the  while 
His  reverence  for  the  Human  ; 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 
He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman ! 

No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 
His  Roanoke  valley  entered  ; 

No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 
Across  his  threshold  ventured. 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Lay  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother-man  stood  weeping, 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom's  duty  giving, 
With  failing  tongue  and  trembling  hand 

The  dying  blest  the  living. 

Oh,  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver  ! 
None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 
He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stooped 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 

The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 
None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of  Doom 

Along  her  future  treading. 
For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 

When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 
He  traced  with  dying  hand  "  Remorse  !  " 

And  perished  in  the  tracing. 


THE  LOST  STATESMAN  135 


As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 

From  Vernon's  weeping  willow, 
And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 

The  Sage  of  Monticello, 
So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 

Of  Eandolph's  lowly  dwelling, 
Virginia  !  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 

A  warning  voice  is  swelling  ! 

And  hark  !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From  quenched  hearths,  where  thy  exiled  sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee,  —  wolves  for  men, 

And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving ! 
Oh,  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 

Were  now  one  hero  living ! 

1847. 

THE  LOST  STATESMAN. 

Written  on  hearing  of  the  death  of  Silas  Wright  of  New  York. 

As  they  who,  tossing  midst  the  storm  at  night, 
While  turning  shoreward,  where  a  beacon  shone. 
Meet  the  walled  blackness  of  the  heaven  alone, 
So,  on  the  turbulent  waves  of  party  tossed, 
In  gloom  and  tempest,  men  have  seen  thy  light 
Quenched  in  the  darkness.    At  thy  hour  of 
noon, 

While  life  was  pleasant  to  thy  undimmed  sight, 
And,  day  by  day,  within  thy  spirit  grew 
A  holier  hope  than  young  Ambition  knew, 


136  A  NTI-SLA  VER  Y  POEMS 


As  through  thy  rural  quiet,  not  in  vain, 
Pierced  the  sharp  thrill  of  Freedom's  cry  of  pain, 

Man  of  the  millions,  thou  art  lost  too  soon ! 
Portents  at  which  the  bravest  stand  aghast,  — 
The  birth-throes  of  a  Future,  strange  and  vast, 

Alarm  the  land  ;  yet  thou,  so  wise  and  strong, 
Suddenly  summoned  to  the  burial  bed, 

Lapped  in  its  slumbers  deep  and  ever  long, 
Hear'st  not  the  tumult  surging  overhead. 
Who  now  shall  rally  Freedom's  scattering  host  ? 
Who  wear  the  mantle  of  the  leader  lost  ? 
Who  stay  the  march  of    slavery  ?    He  whose 
voice 

Hath  called  thee  from  thy  task-field  shall  not 
lack 

Yet  bolder  champions,  to  beat  bravely  back 
The  wrong  which,  through  his  poor  ones,  reaches 
Him: 

Yet  firmer  hands  shall  Freedom's  torchlights  trim, 

And  wave  them  high  across  the  abysmal  black, 
Till  bound,  dumb  millions  there  shall  see  them 
and  rejoice. 
10ih  mo.,  1847. 

THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE. 

Suggested  by  a  daguerreotype  taken  from  a  small  French  en- 
graving of  two  negro  figures,  sent  to  the  writer  by  Oliver  John- 
son. 

Beams  of  noon,  like  burning  lances,  through  the 

tree-tops  flash  and  glisten, 
As  she  stands  before  her  lover,  with  raised  face  to 

look  and  listen. 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE  137 

Dark,  but  comely,  like  the  maiden  in  the  ancient 
J ewish  song : 

Scarcely  has  the  toil  of  task-fields  done  her  grace- 
ful beauty  wrong. 

He,  the  strong  one  and  the  manly,  with  the  vassal's 

garb  and  hue, 
Holding  still  his  spirit's  birthright,  to  his  higher 

nature  true ; 

Hiding  deep  the  strengthening  purpose  of  a  free- 
man in  his  heart, 

As  the  gregree  holds  his  Fetich  from  the  white 
man's  gaze  apart. 

Ever  foremost  of  his  comrades,  when  the  driver's 

morning  horn 
Calls  away  to  stifling  mill-house,  to  the  fields  of 

cane  and  corn : 

Fall  the  keen  and  burning  lashes  never  on  his  back 
or  limb ; 

Scarce  with  look  or  word  of  censure,  turns  the 
driver  unto  him. 

Yet,  his  brow  is  always  thoughtful,  and  his  eye  is 

hard  and  stern ; 
Slavery's  last  and  humblest  lesson  he  has  never 

deigned  to  learn. 

And,  at  evening,  when  his  comrades  dance  before 

their  master's  door, 
Folding  arms  and  knitting  forehead,  stands  he 

silent  evermore. 


138  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

God  be  praised  for  every  instinct  which  rebels 
against  a  lot 

Where  the  brute  survives  the  human,  and  man's 
upright  form  is  not ! 

As  the  serpent-like  bejuco  winds  his  spiral  fold  on 
fold 

Eound  the  tall  and  stately  ceiba,  till  it  withers  in 
his  hold ; 

Slow  decays  the  forest  monarch,  closer  girds  the 

fell  embrace, 
Till  the  tree  is  seen  no  longer,  and  the  vine  is  in 

its  place ; 

So  a  base  and  bestial  nature  round  the  vassal's 

manhood  twines, 
And  the  spirit  wastes  beneath  it,  like  the  ceiba 

choked  with  vines. 

God  is  Love,  saith  the  Evangel ;  and  our  world  of 
woe  and  sin 

Is  made  light  and  happy  only  when  a  Love  is  shin- 
ing in. 

Ye  whose  lives  are  free  as  sunshine,  finding,  where- 

soe'er  ye  roam, 
Smiles  of  welcome,  looks  of  kindness,  making  all 

the  world  like  home  ; 

In  the  veins  of  whose  affections  kindred  blood  is 
but  a  part, 

Of  one  kindly  current  throbbing  from  the  univer- 
sal heart ; 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE  139 


Can  ye  know  the  deeper  meaning  of  a  love  in  Slav- 
ery nursed, 

Last  flower  of  a  lost  Eden,  blooming  in  that  Soil 
accursed  ? 

Love  of  Home,  and  Love  of  Woman !  —  dear  to  all, 

but  doubly  dear 
To  the  heart  whose  pulses  elsewhere  measure  only 

hate  and  fear. 

All  around  the  desert  circles,  underneath  a  brazen 
sky, 

Only  one  green  spot  remaining  where  the  dew  is 
never  dry ! 

From  the  horror  of  that  desert,  from  its  atmosphere 
of  hell, 

Turns  the  fainting  spirit  thither,  as  the  diver  seeks 
his  bell. 

'T  is  the  fervid  tropic  noontime ;  faint  and  low  the 
sea-waves  beat ; 

Hazy  rise  the  inland  mountains  through  the  glim- 
mer of  the  heat,  — 

Where,  through  mingled  leaves  and  blossoms, 
arrowy  sunbeams  flash  and  glisten, 

Speaks  her  lover  to  the  slave-girl,  and  she  lifts  her 
head  to  listen  :  — 

"  We  shall  live  as  slaves  no  longer !  Freedom's 

hour  is  close  at  hand ! 
Rocks  her  bark  upon  the  waters,  rests  the  boat 

upon  the  strand ! 


Y 


140  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


"  I  have  seen  the  Haytien  Captain ;  I  have  seen 

his  swarthy  crew, 
Haters  of  the  pallid  faces,  to  their  race  and  color 

true. 

"  They  have  sworn  to  wait  our  coming  till  the  night 

has  passed  its  noon, 
And  the  gray  and  darkening  waters  roll  above  the 

sunken  moon ! " 

Oh,  the  blessed  hope  of  freedom !  how  with  joy 

and  glad  surprise, 
For  an  instant  throbs  her  bosom,  for  an  instant 

beam  her  eyes ! 

But  she  looks  across  the  valley,  where  her  mother's 
hut  is  seen, 

Through  the  snowy  bloom  of  coffee,  and  the  lemon- 
leaves  so  green. 

And  she  answers,  sad  and  earnest :  "  It  were  wrong 

for  thee  to  stay  ; 
God  hath  heard  thy  prayer  for  freedom,  and  his 

finger  points  the  way. 

"  Well  I  know  with  what  endurance,  for  the  sake 

of  me  and  mine, 
Thou  hast  borne  too  long  a  burden  never  meant 

for  souls  like  thine. 

"  Go  ;  and  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  when  our  last 

farewell  is  o'er, 
Kneeling  on  our  place  of  parting,  I  will  bless  thee 

from  the  shore. 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE  141 

"  But  for  me,  my  mother,  lying  on  her  sick-bed 
all  the  day, 

Lifts  her  weary  head  to  watch  me,  coming  through 
the  twilight  gray. 

"  Should  I  leave  her  sick  and  helpless,  even  free- 
dom, shared  with  thee, 

Would  be  sadder  far  than  bondage,  lonely  toil,  and 
stripes  to  me. 

"  For  my  heart  would  die  within  me,  and  my  brain 
would  soon  be  wild ; 

I  should  hear  my  mother  calling  through  the  twi- 
light for  her  child  !  " 

Blazing  upward  from  the  ocean,  shines  the  sun  of 

morning-time, 
Through  the  coffee-trees  in  blossom,  and  green 

hedges  of  the  lime. 

Side  by  side,  amidst  the  slave-gang,  toil  the  lover 

and  the  maid ; 
Wherefore  looks  he  o'er  the  waters,  leaning  forward 

on  his  spade  ? 

Sadly  looks  he,  deeply  sighs  he  : 't  is  the  Haytien's 
sail  he  sees, 

Like  a  white  cloud  of  the  mountains,  driven  sea- 
ward by  the  breeze ! 

But  his  arm  a  light  hand  presses,  and  he  hears  a 

low  voice  call : 
Hate  of  Slavery,  hope  of  Freedom,  Love  is  mightier 

than  all. 

1848. 


142  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER-BREAKERS. 

The  rights  and  liberties  affirmed  by  Magna  Charta  were 
deemed  of  such  importance,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  that  the 
Bishops,  twice  a  year,  with  tapers  burning,  and  in  their  pontifical 
robes,  pronounced,  in  the  presence  of  the  king  and  the  represent- 
atives of  the  estates  of  England,  the  greater  excommunication 
against  the  infringer  of  that  instrument.  The  imposing  ceremony 
took  place  in  the  great  Hall  of  Westminster.  A  copy  of  the 
curse,  as  pronounced  in  1253,  declares  that,  "  by  the  authority 
of  Almighty  God,  and  the  blessed  Apostles  and  Martyrs,  and  all 
the  saints  in  heaven,  all  those  who  violate  the  English  liberties, 
and  secretly  or  openly,  by  deed,  word,  or  counsel,  do  make  stat- 
utes, or  observe  them  being  made,  against  said  liberties,  are  ac- 
cursed and  sequestered  from  the  company  of  heaven  and  the  sacra- 
ments of  the  Holy  Church." 

William  Penn,  in  his  admirable  political  pamphlet,  England' 's 
Present  Interest  Considered,  alluding  to  the  curse  of  the  Charter- 
breakers,  says  :  "I  am  no  Roman  Catholic,  and  little  value  their 
other  curses ;  yet  I  declare  I  would  not  for  the  world  incur  this 
curse,  as  every  man  deservedly  doth,  who  offers  violence  to  the 
fundamental  freedom  thereby  repeated  and  confirmed." 

In  Westminster's  royal  halls, 
Robed  in  their  pontificals, 
England's  ancient  prelates  stood 
For  the  people's  right  and  good. 

Closed  around  the  waiting  crowd, 
Dark  and  still,  like  winter's  cloud ; 
King  and  council,  lord  and  knight, 
Squire  and  yeoman,  stood  in  sight ; 

Stood  to  hear  the  priest  rehearse, 
In  God's  name,  the  Church's  curse, 
By  the  tapers  round  them  lit, 
Slowly,  sternly  uttering  it. 


CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER-BREAKERS 

"  Right  of  voice  in  framing  laws, 
Right  of  peers  to  try  each  cause ; 
Peasant  homestead,  mean  and  small, 
Sacred  as  the  monarch's  hall,  — 

"  "Whoso  lays  his  hand  on  these, 
England's  ancient  liberties ; 
Whoso  breaks,  by  word  or  deed, 
England's  vow  at  Runnymede  ; 

"  Be  he  Prince  or  belted  knight, 
Whatsoe'er  his  rank  or  might, 
If  the  highest,  then  the  worst, 
Let  him  live  and  die  accursed. 

"  Thou,  who  to  Thy  Church  hast  given 
Keys  alike,  of  hell  and  heaven, 
Make  our  word  and  witness  sure, 
Let  the  curse  we  speak  endure !  " 

Silent,  while  that  curse  was  said, 
Every  bare  and  listening  head 
Bowed  in  reverent  awe,  and  then 
All  the  people  said,  Amen ! 

Seven  times  the  bells  have  tolled, 
For  the  centuries  gray  and  old, 
Since  that  stoled  and  mitred  band 
Cursed  the  tyrants  of  their  land. 

Since  the  priesthood,  like  a  tower, 
Stood  between  the  poor  and  power ; 
And  the  wronged  and  trodden  down 
Blessed  the  abbot's  shaven  crown. 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Gone,  thank  God,  their  wizard  spell, 
Lost,  their  keys  of  heaven  and  hell ; 
Yet  I  sigh  for  men  as  bold 
As  those  bearded  priests  of  old. 

Now,  too  oft  the  priesthood  wait 
At  the  threshold  of  the  state  ; 
Waiting  for  the  beck  and  nod 
Of  its  power  as  law  and  God. 

Fraud  exults,  while  solemn  words 
Sanctify  his  stolen  hoards ; 
Slavery  laughs,  while  ghostly  lips 
Bless  his  manacles  and  whips. 

Not  on  them  the  poor  rely, 

Not  to  them  looks  liberty, 

Who  with  fawning  falsehood  cower 

To  the  wrong,  when  clothed  with  power. 

Oh,  to  see  them  meanly  cling, 
Round  the  master,  round  the  king, 
Sported  with,  and  sold  and  bought, — 
Pitif  uller  sight  is  not ! 

Tell  me  not  that  this  must  be  : 
God's  true  priest  is  always  free  ; 
Free,  the  needed  truth  to  speak, 
Right  the  wronged,  and  raise  the  weak. 

Not  to  fawn  on  wealth  and  state, 
Leaving  Lazarus  at  the  gate  ; 
Not  to  peddle  creeds  like  wares ; 
Not  to  mutter  hireling  prayers  ; 


CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER-BREAKERS 

Nor  to  paint  the  new  life's  bliss 
On  the  sable  ground  of  this  ; 
Golden  streets  for  idle  knave, 
Sabbath  rest  for  weary  slave  ! 

Not  for  words  and  works  like  these, 
Priest  of  God,  thy  mission  is  ; 
But  to  make  earth's  desert  glad, 
In  its  Eden  greenness  clad ; 

And  to  level  manhood  bring 
Lord  and  peasant,  serf  and  king ; 
And  the  Christ  of  God  to  find 
In  the  humblest  of  thy  kind ! 

Thine  to  work  as  well  as  pray, 
Clearing  thorny  wrongs  away  ; 
Plucking  up  the  weeds  of  sin, 
Letting  heaven's  warm  sunshine  in ; 

Watching  on  the  hills  of  Faith ; 
Listening  what  the  spirit  saith, 
Of  the  dim-seen  light  afar, 
Growing  like  a  nearing  star. 

God's  interpreter  art  thou, 
To  the  waiting  ones  below ; 
'Twixt  them  and  its  light  midway 
Heralding  the  better  day ; 

Catching  gleams  of  temple  spires, 
Hearing  notes  of  angel  choirs, 
Where,  as  yet  unseen  of  them, 
Comes  the  New  Jerusalem  ! 

VOL.  III.  10 


146 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Like  the  seer  of  Patmos  gazing, 
On  the  glory  downward  blazing ; 
Till  upon  Earth's  grateful  sod 
Eests  the  City  of  our  God ! 

1848. 

This  poem  indicates  the  exultation  of  the  anti-slavery  party  in 
view  of  the  revolt  of  the  friends  of  Martin  Van  Buren  in  New 
York,  from  the  Democratic  Presidential  nomination  in  1848. 

Now,  joy  and  thanks  forevermore ! 

The  dreary  night  has  wellnigh  passed, 
The  slumbers  of  the  North  are  o'er, 

The  Giant  stands  erect  at  last ! 

More  than  we  hoped  in  that  dark  time 

"When,  faint  with  watching,  few  and  worn, 

We  saw  no  welcome  day-star  climb 
The  cold  gray  pathway  of  the  morn ! 

O  weary  hours  !    O  night  of  years  ! 

What  storms  our  darkling  pathway  swept, 
Where,  beating  back  our  thronging  fears, 

By  Faith  alone  our  march  we  kept. 

How  jeered  the  scoffing  crowd  behind, 
How  mocked  before  the  tyrant  train, 

As,  one  by  one,  the  true  and  kind 
Pell  fainting  in  our  path  of  pain  ! 

They  died,  their  brave  hearts  breaking  slow, 
But,  self-forgetful  to  the  last, 


PjEAN 


147 


In  words  of  cheer  and  bugle  blow 

Their  breath  upon  the  darkness  passed. 

A  mighty  host,  on  either  hand, 
Stood  waiting  for  the  dawn  of  day 

To  crush  like  reeds  our  feeble  band ; 

The  morn  has  come,  and  where  are  they? 

Troop  after  troop  their  line  forsakes ; 

With  peace-white  banners  waving  free, 
And  from  our  own  the  glad  shout  breaks, 

Of  Freedom  and  Fraternity  ! 

Like  mist  before  the  growing  light, 

The  hostile  cohorts  melt  away ; 
Our  frowning  foemen  of  the  night 

Are  brothers  at  the  dawn  of  day ! 

As  unto  these  repentant  ones 

We  open  wide  our  toil-worn  ranks, 

Along  our  line  a  murmur  runs 

Of  song,  and  praise,  and  grateful  thanks. 

Sound  for  the  onset !    Blast  on  blast ! 

Till  Slavery's  minions  cower  and  quail ; 
One  charge  of  fire  shall  drive  them  fast 

Like  chaff  before  our  Northern  gale  ! 

O  prisoners  in  your  house  of  pain, 

Dumb,  toiling  millions,  bound  and  sold, 

Look !  stretched  o'er  Southern  vale  and  plain, 
The  Lord's  delivering  hand  behold ! 


148 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Above  the  tyrant's  pride  of  power, 

His  iron  gates  and  guarded  wall, 
The  bolts  which  shattered  Shinar's  tower 

Hang,  smoking,  for  a  fiercer  fall. 

Awake  !  awake !  my  Fatherland  ! 

It  is  thy  Northern  light  that  shines ; 
This  stirring  march  of  Freedom's  band 

The  storm-song  of  thy  mountain  pines. 

Wake,  dwellers  where  the  day  expires  ! 

And  hear,  in  winds  that  sweep  your  lakes 
And  fan  your  prairies'  roaring  fires, 

The  signal-call  that  Freedom  makes ! 
1848. 

THE  CRISIS. 

Written  on  learning  the  terms  of  the  treaty  with  Mexico. 

Across  the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the  desert's 

drouth  and  sand, 
The  circles  of  our  empire  touch  the  western  ocean's 

strand ; 

From  slumberous  Timpanogos,  to  Gila,  wild  and 
free, 

Flowing  down  from  Nuevo-Leon  to  California's  sea ; 
And  from  the  mountains  of  the  east,  to  Santa 

Rosa's  shore, 
The  eagles  of  Mexitli  shall  beat  the  air  no  more. 

O  Vale  of  Rio  Bravo !    Let  thy  simple  children 
weep ; 

Close  watch  about  their  holy  fire  let  maids  of  Pe- 
cos keep ; 


THE  CRISIS 


149 


Let  Taos  send  her  cry  across  Sierra  Madre's  pines, 
And  Santa  Barbara  toll  her  bells  amidst  her  corn 
and  vines ; 

For  lo !  the  pale  land-seekers  come,  with  eager  eyes 
of  gain, 

Wide  scattering,  like  the  bison  herds  on  broad 
Salada's  plain. 

Let  Sacramento's  herdsmen  heed  what  sound  the 

winds  bring  down 
Of  footsteps   on  the  crisping  snow,  from  cold 

Nevada's  crown  ! 
Full  hot  and  fast  the  Saxon  rides,  with  rein  of 

travel  slack, 

And,  bending  o'er  his  saddle,  leaves  the  sunrise  at 
his  back ; 

By  many  a  lonely  river,  and  gorge  of  fir  and 
pine, 

On  many  a  wintry  hill-top,  his  nightly  camp-fires 
shine. 

O  countrymen  and  brothers !  that  land  of  lake  and 
plain, 

Of  salt  wastes  alternating  with  valleys  fat  with 
grain ; 

Of  mountains  white  with  winter,  looking  downward, 
cold,  serene, 

On  their  feet  with  spring-vines  tangled  and  lapped 

in  softest  green ; 
Swift  through  whose  black  volcanic  gates,  o'er 

many  a  sunny  vale, 
Wind-like  the  Arapahoe  sweeps  the  bison's  dusty 

trail ! 


150  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Great  spaces  yet  untravelled,  great  lakes  whose 
mystic  shores 

The  Saxon  rifle  never  heard,  nor  dip  of  Saxon  oars ; 

Great  herds  that  wander  all  unwatched,  wild  steeds 
that  none  have  tamed, 

Strange  fish  in  unknown  streams,  and  birds  the 
Saxon  never  named ; 

Deep  mines,  dark  mountain  crucibles,  where  Na- 
ture's chemic  powers 

Work  out  the  Great  Designer's  will ;  all  these  ye 
say  are  ours ! 

Forever  ours !  for  good  or  ill,  on  us  the  burden 
lies ; 

God's  balance,  watched  by  angels,  is  hung  across 
the  skies. 

Shall  Justice,  Truth,  and  Freedom  turn  the  poised 
and  trembling  scale  ? 

Or  shall  the  Evil  triumph,  and  robber  Wrong  pre- 
vail? 

Shall  the  broad  land  o'er  which  our  flag  in  starry 

splendor  waves, 
Forego  through  us  its  freedom,  and  bear  the  tread 

of  slaves  ? 

The  day  is  breaking  in  the  East  of  which  the  pro- 
phets told, 

And  brightens  up  the  sky  of  Time  the  Christian 

Age  of  Gold ; 
Old  Might  to  Eight  is  yielding,  battle  blade  to 

clerkly  pen, 

Earth's  monarchs  are  her  peoples,  and  her  serfs 
stand  up  as  men  ; 


THE  CRISIS 


151 


The  isles  rejoice  together,  in  a  day  are  nations 
born, 

And  the  slave  walks  free  in  Tunis,  and  by  Stam- 
boul's  Golden  Horn ! 

Is  this,  O  countrymen  of  mine  !  a  day  for  us  to  sow 
The  soil  of  new-gained  empire  with  slavery's  seeds 
of  woe? 

To  feed  with  our  fresh  life-blood  the  Old  World's 

cast-off  crime, 
Dropped,  like  some  monstrous  early  birth,  from 

the  tired  lap  of  Time  ? 
To  run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  lost  nations  ran, 
And  die  like  them  of  unbelief  of  God,  and  wrong 

of  man  ? 

Great  Heaven !  Is  this  our  mission  ?  End  in  this 
the  prayers  and  tears, 

The  toil,  the  strife,  the  watchings  of  our  younger, 
better  years  ? 

Still  as  the  Old  World  rolls  in  light,  shall  ours  in 
shadow  turn, 

A  beamless  Chaos,  cursed  of  God,  through  outer 
darkness  borne  ? 

Where  the  far  nations  looked  for  light,  a  black- 
ness in  the  air  ? 

Where  for  words  of  hope  they  listened,  the  long 
wail  of  despair  ? 

The  Crisis  presses  on  us ;  face  to  face  with  us  it 
stands, 

With  solemn  lips  of  question,  like  the  Sphinx  in 
Egypt's  sands ! 


152  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

This  day  we  fashion  Destiny,  our  web  of  Fate  we 
spin ; 

This  day  for  all  hereafter  choose  we  holiness  or 
sin ; 

Even  now  from  starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal's  cloudy 
crown, 

We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts  of  cursing 
down ! 

By  all  for  which  the  martyrs  bore  their  agony  and 
shame ; 

By  all  the  warning  words  of  truth  with  which  the 

prophets  came ; 
By  the  Future  which  awaits  us ;  by  all  the  hopes 

which  cast 

Their  faint  and  trembling  beams  across  the  black- 
ness of  the  Past ; 

And  by  the  blessed  thought  of  Him  who  for  Earth's 
freedom  died, 

O  my  people !  O  my  brothers  !  let  us  choose  the 
righteous  side. 

So  shall  the  Northern  pioneer  go  joyful  on  his 
way; 

To  wed  Penobscot's  waters  to  San  Francisco's  bay  3 
To  make  the  rugged  places  smooth,  and  sow  the 

vales  with  grain  ; 
And  bear,  with  Liberty  and  Law,  the  Bible  in  his 

train  : 

The  mighty  West  shall  bless  the  East,  and  sea  shall 
answer  sea, 

And  mountain  unto  mountain  call,  Praise  God,  for 
we  are  free  ! 

1848. 


LINES 


153 


LINES  ON  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  A  CELE- 
BRATED PUBLISHER. 

The  lines  following  were  addressed  to  a  magazine  publisher, 
who,  alarmed  for  his  Southern  circulation,  not  only  dropped  the 
name  of  Grace  Greenwood  from  his  list  of  contributors,  but  made 
an  offensive  parade  of  his  action,  with  the  view  of  strengthening 
his  position  among  slaveholders  and  conservatives.  By  some  coin- 
cidence his  portrait  was  issued  about  the  same  time. 

A  moony  breadth  of  virgin  face, 

By  thought  unviolated ; 
A  patient  mouth,  to  take  from  scorn 

The  hook  with  bank-notes  baited  ! 
Its  self-complacent  sleekness  shows 

How  thrift  goes  with  the  fawner ; 
An  unctuous  unconcern  of  all 

Which  nice  folks  call  dishonor  ! 

A  pleasant  print  to  peddle  out 

In  lands  of  rice  and  cotton ; 
The  model  of  that  face  in  dough 

Would  make  the  artist's  fortune. 
For  Fame  to  thee  has  come  unsought, 

While  others  vainly  woo  her, 
In  proof  how  mean  a  thing  can  make 

A  great  man  of  its  doer. 

To  whom  shall  men  thyself  compare, 

Since  common  models  fail  'em, 
Save  classic  goose  of  ancient  Rome, 

Or  sacred  ass  of  Balaam  ? 
The  gabble  of  that  wakeful  goose 

Saved  Rome  from  sack  of  Brennus  % 


154  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


The  braying  of  the  prophet's  ass 
Betrayed  the  angel's  menace ! 

So  when  Guy  Fawkes,  in  petticoats, 

And  azure-tinted  hose  on, 
Was  twisting  from  thy  love-lorn  sheets 

The  slow-match  of  explosion  — 
An  earthquake  blast  that  would  have  tossed 

The  Union  as  a  feather, 
Thy  instinct  saved  a  perilled  land 

And  perilled  purse  together. 

Just  think  of  Carolina's  sage 

Sent  whirling  like  a  Dervis, 
Of  Quattlebum  in  middle  air 

Performing  strange  drill-service ! 
Doomed  like  Assyria's  lord  of  old, 

Who  fell  before  the  Jewess, 
Or  sad  Abimelech,  to  sigh, 

"  Alas  !  a  woman  slew  us  !  " 

Thou  saw'st  beneath  a  fair  disguise 

The  danger  darkly  lurking, 
And  maiden  bodice  dreaded  more 

Than  warrior's  steel-wrought  jerkin0 
How  keen  to  scent  the  hidden  plot ! 

How  prompt  wert  thou  to  balk  it, 
With  patriot  zeal  and  pedler  thrift, 

For  country  and  for  pocket ! 

Thy  likeness  here  is  doubtless  well, 
But  higher  honor 's  due  it ; 


DERNE 


155 


On  auction-block  and  negro-jail 

Admiring  eyes  should  view  it. 
Or,  hung  aloft,  it  well  might  grace 

The  nation's  senate-chamber  — 
A  greedy  Northern  bottle-fly 

Preserved  in  Slavery's  amber  ! 

1850. 

DERNE. 

The  storming'  of  the  city  of  Derne,  in  1805,  by  General  Eaton, 
at  the  head  of  nine  Americans,  forty  Greeks,  and  a  motley  array 
of  Turks  and  Arabs,  was  one  of  those  feats  of  hardihood  and  dar- 
ing which  have  in  all  ages  attracted  the  admiration  of  the  multi- 
tude. The  higher  and  holier  heroism  of  Christian  self-denial  and 
sacrifice,  in  the  humble  walks  of  private  duty,  is  seldom  so  well 
appreciated. 

Night  on  the  city  of  the  Moor ! 

On  mosque  and  tomb,  and  white-walled  shore, 

On  sea-waves,  to  whose  ceaseless  knock 

The  narrow  harbor-gates  unlock, 

On  corsair's  galley,  carack  tall, 

And  plundered  Christian  caraval ! 

The  sounds  of  Moslem  life  are  still ; 

No  mule-bell  tinkles  down  the  hill ; 

Stretched  in  the  broad  court  of  the  khan, 

The  dusty  Bornou  caravan 

Lies  heaped  in  slumber,  beast  and  man ; 

The  Sheik  is  dreaming  in  his  tent, 

His  noisy  Arab  tongue  o'erspent ; 

The  kiosk's  glimmering  lights  are  gone, 

The  merchant  with  his  wares  withdrawn ; 

Rough  pillowed  on  some  pirate  breast, 

The  dancing-girl  has  sunk  to  rest ; 


156  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


And,  save  where  measured  footsteps  fall 
Along  the  Bashaw's  guarded  wall, 
Or  where,  like  some  bad  dream,  the  Jew 
Creeps  stealthily  his  quarter  through, 
Or  counts  with  fear  his  golden  heaps, 
The  City  of  the  Corsair  sleeps ! 

But  where  yon  prison  long  and  low 
Stands  black  against  the  pale  star-glow, 
Chafed  by  the  ceaseless  wash  of  waves, 
There  watch  and  pine  the  Christian  slaves ; 
Rough-bearded  men,  whose  far-off  wives 
Wear  out  with  grief  their  lonely  lives ; 
And  youth,  still  flashing  from  his  eyes 
The  clear  blue  of  New  England  skies, 
A  treasured  lock  of  whose  soft  hair 
Now  wakes  some  sorrowing  mother's  prayer  ; 
Or,  worn  upon  some  maiden  breast, 
Stirs  with  the  loving  heart's  unrest ! 

A  bitter  cup  each  life  must  drain, 
The  groaning  earth  is  cursed  with  pain, 
And,  like  the  scroll  the  angel  bore 
The  shuddering  Hebrew  seer  before, 
O'erwrit  alike,  without,  within, 
"With  all  the  woes  which  follow  sin  ; 
But,  bitterest  of  the  ills  beneath 
Whose  load  man  totters  down  to  death, 
Is  that  which  plucks  the  regal  crown 
Of  Freedom  from  his  forehead  down, 
And  snatches  from  his  powerless  hand 
The  sceptred  sign  of  self-command, 
Effacing  with  the  chain  and  rod 


DERNE 


157 


The  image  and  the  seal  of  God  ; 
Till  from  his  nature,  day  by  day, 
The  manly  virtues  fall  away, 
And  leave  him  naked,  blind  and  mute, 
The  godlike  merging  in  the  brute ! 

Why  mourn  the  quiet  ones  who  die 
Beneath  affection's  tender  eye, 
Unto  their  household  and  their  kin 
Like  ripened  corn-sheaves  gathered  in  ? 
O  weeper,  from  that  tranquil  sod, 
That  holy  harvest-home  of  God, 
Turn  to  the  quick  and  suffering,  shed 
Thy  tears  upon  the  living  dead ! 
Thank  God  above  thy  dear  ones'  graves, 
They  sleep  with  Him,  they  are  not  slaves. 

What  dark  mass,  down  the  mountain-sides 

Swift-pouring,  like  a  stream  divides  ? 

A  long,  loose,  straggling  caravan, 

Camel  and  horse  and  armed  man. 

The  moon's  low  crescent,  glimmering  o'er 

Its  grave  of  waters  to  the  shore, 

Lights  up  that  mountain  cavalcade, 

And  gleams  from  gun  and  spear  and  blade 

Near  and  more  near !  now  o'er  them  falls 

The  shadow  of  the  city  walls. 

Hark  to  the  sentry's  challenge,  drowned 

In  the  fierce  trumpet's  charging  sound ! 

The  rush  of  men,  the  musket's  peal, 

The  short,  sharp  clang  of  meeting  steel ! 

Vain,  Moslem,  vain  thy  lifeblood  poured 
So  freely  on  thy  foeman's  sword  ! 


158  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Not  to  the  swift  nor  to  the  strong 
The  battles  of  the  right  belong  ; 
For  he  who  strikes  for  Freedom  wears 
The  armor  of  the  captive's  prayers, 
And  Nature  proffers  to  his  cause 
The  strength  of  her  eternal  laws ; 
While  he  whose  arm  essays  to  bind 
And  herd  with  common  brutes  his  kind 
Strives  evermore  at  fearful  odds 
With  Nature  and  the  jealous  gods, 
And  dares  the  dread  recoil  which  late 
Or  soon  their  right  shall  vindicate. 

'T  is  done,  the  horned  crescent  falls  ! 
The  star-flag  flouts  the  broken  walls  ! 
Joy  to  the  captive  husband  !  joy 
To  thy  sick  heart,  O  brown-locked  boy ! 
In  sullen  wrath  the  conquered  Moor 
Wide  open  flings  your  dungeon-door, 
And  leaves  ye  free  from  cell  and  chain, 
The  owners  of  yourselves  again. 
Dark  as  his  allies  desert-born, 
Soiled  with  the  battle's  stain,  and  worn 
With  the  long  marches  of  his  band 
Through  hottest  wastes  of  rock  and  sand, 
Scorched  by  the  sun  and  furnace-breath 
Of  the  red  desert's  wind  of  death, 
With  welcome  words  and  grasping  hands, 
The  victor  and  deliverer  stands ! 

The  tale  is  one  of  distant  skies ; 
The  dust  of  half  a  century  lies 
Upon  it ;  yet  its  hero's  name 


A  SABBATH  SCENE 


159 


Still  lingers  on  the  lips  of  Fame. 
Men  speak  the  praise  of  him  who  gave 
Deliverance  to  the  Moorman's  slave, 
Yet  dare  to  brand  with  shame  and  crime 
The  heroes  of  our  land  and  time,  — 
The  self -forgetful  ones,  who  stake 
Home,  name,  and  life  for  Freedom's  sake0 
God  mend  his  heart  who  cannot  feel 
The  impulse  of  a  holy  zeal, 
And  sees  not,  with  his  sordid  eyes, 
The  beauty  of  self-sacrifice  ! 
Though  in  the  sacred  place  he  stands, 
Uplifting  consecrated  hands, 
Unworthy  are  his  lips  to  tell 
Of  Jesus'  martyr-miracle, 
Or  name  aright  that  dread  embrace 
Of  suffering  for  a  fallen  race ! 
1850. 


A  SABBATH  SCENE. 

This  poem  finds  its  justification  in  the  readiness  with  which, 
even  in  the  North,  clergymen  urged  the  prompt  execution  of  the 
Fugitive  Slave  Law  as  a  Christian  duty,  and  defended  the  system 
of  slavery  as  a  Bible  institution. 

Scarce  had  the  solemn  Sabbath-bell 
Ceased  quivering  in  the  steeple, 

Scarce  had  the  parson  to  his  desk 
"Walked  stately  through  his  people, 

When  down  the  summer-shaded  street 

A  wasted  female  figure, 
With  dusky  brow  and  naked  feet, 

Came  rushing  wild  and  eager. 


160  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


She  saw  the  white  spire  through  the  trees, 
She  heard  the  sweet  hymn  swelling : 

O  pitying  Christ !  a  refuge  give 
That  poor  one  in  Thy  dwelling  ! 

Like  a  scared  fawn  before  the  hounds, 
Right  up  the  aisle  she  glided, 

While  close  behind  her,  whip  in  hand, 
A  lank-haired  hunter  strided. 

She  raised  a  keen  and  bitter  cry, 
To  Heaven  and  Earth  appealing ; 

Were  manhood's  generous  pulses  dead  ? 
Had  woman's  heart  no  feeling  ? 

A  score  of  stout  hands  rose  between 

The  hunter  and  the  flying : 
Age  clenched  his  staff,  and  maiden  eyes 

Flashed  tearful,  yet  defying. 

"  Who  dares  profane  this  house  and  day  ?  " 

Cried  out  the  angry  pastor. 
"  Why,  bless  your  soul,  the  wench 's  a  slave, 

And  I 'm  her  lord  and  master ! 

"  I 've  law  and  gospel  on  my  side, 
And  who  shall  dare  refuse  me  ?  " 
Down  came  the  parson,  bowing  low, 
"  My  good  sir,  pray  excuse  me  ! 

"  Of  course  I  know  your  right  divine 
To  own  and  work  and  whip  her ; 
Quick,  deacon,  throw  that  Polyglott 
Before  the  wench,  and  trip  her  ! " 


A  SABBATH  SCENE 


Plump  dropped  the  holy  tome,  and  o'er 

Its  sacred  pages  stumbling, 
Bound  hand  and  foot,  a  slave  once  more, 

The  hapless  wretch  lay  trembling. 

I  saw  the  parson  tie  the  knots, 
The  while  his  flock  addressing, 

The  Scriptural  claims  of  slavery 
With  text  on  text  impressing. 

"  Although,"  said  he,  "  on  Sabbath  day 
All  secular  occupations 
Are  deadly  sins,  we  must  fulfil 
Our  moral  obligations : 

"  And  this  commends  itself  as  one 
To  every  conscience  tender  ; 
As  Paul  sent  back  Onesimus, 

My  Christian  friends,  we  send  her  !  " 

Shriek  rose  on  shriek,  —  the  Sabbath  air 
Her  wild  cries  tore  asunder ; 

I  listened,  with  hushed  breath,  to  hear 
God  answering  with  his  thunder  ! 

All  still !  the  very  altar's  cloth 

Had  smothered  down  her  shrieking, 

And,  dumb,  she  turned  from  face  to  face, 
For  human  pity  seeking ! 

I  saw  her  dragged  along  the  aisle, 
Her  shackles  harshly  clanking  ; 

I  heard  the  parson,  over  all, 
The  Lord  devoutly  thanking  ! 

vol.  in.  ll 


162  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


My  brain  took  fire  :  "  Is  this,"  I  cried, 
"  The  end  of  prayer  and  preaching  ? 

Then  down  with  pulpit,  down  with  priest5 
And  give  us  Nature's  teaching  ! 

"  Foul  shame  and  scorn  be  on  ye  all 
Who  turn  the  good  to  evil, 
And  steal  the  Bible  from  the  Lord, 
To  give  it  to  the  Devil ! 

"  Than  garbled  text  or  parchment  law 
I  own  a  statute  higher  ; 
And  God  is  true,  though  every  book 
And  every  man's  a  liar  !  " 

Just  then  I  felt  the  deacon's  hand 
In  wrath  my  coat-tail  seize  on ; 

I  heard  the  priest  cry,  "  Infidel !  " 
The  lawyer  mutter,  "  Treason  !  " 

I  started  up,  —  where  now  were  churchy 
Slave,  master,  priest,  and  people? 

I  only  heard  the  supper-bell, 
Instead  of  clanging  steeple. 

But,  on  the  open  window's  sill, 

O'er  which  the  white  blooms  drifted, 

The  pages  of  a  good  old  Book 
The  wind  of  summer  lifted, 

And  flower  and  vine,  like  angel  wings 

Around  the  Holy  Mother, 
Waved  softly  there,  as  if  God's  truth 

And  Mercy  kissed  each  other. 


IN  THE  EVIL  DAYS 


163 


And  freely  from  the  cherry-bough 
Above  the  casement  swinging, 

With  golden  bosom  to  the  sun, 
The  oriole  was  singing. 

As  bird  and  flower  made  plain  of  old 

The  lesson  of  the  Teacher, 
So  now  I  heard  the  written  Word 

Interpreted  by  Nature ! 

For  to  my  ear  methought  the  breeze 
Bore  Freedom's  blessed  word  on  ; 

Thus  saith  the  Lord  :  Break  every  yoke, 
Undo  the  heavy  burden  ! 

1850. 


IN  THE  EVIL  DAYS. 

This  and  the  four  following  poems  have  special  reference  to 
that  darkest  hour  in  the  aggression  of  slavery  which  preceded  the 
dawn  of  a  better  day,  when  the  conscience  of  the  people  was. 
roused  to  action. 

The  evil  days  have  come,  the  poor 

Are  made  a  prey; 
Bar  up  the  hospitable  door, 
Put  out  the  fire-lights,  point  no  more 

The  wanderer's  way. 

For  Pity  now  is  crime  ;  the  chain 

Which  binds  our  States 
Is  melted  at  her  hearth  in  twain, 
Is  rusted  by  her  tears'  soft  rain  : 

Close  up  her  gates. 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Our  Union,  like  a  glacier  stirred 

By  voice  below, 
Or  bell  of  kine,  or  wing  of  bird, 
A  beggar's  crust,  a  kindly  word 

May  overthrow ! 

Poor,  whispering  tremblers !  yet  we  boast 

Our  blood  and  name  ; 
Bursting  its  century-bolted  frost, 
Each  gray  cairn  on  the  Northman's  coast 

Cries  out  for  shame  ! 

Oh  for  the  open  firmament, 

The  prairie  free, 
The  desert  hillside,  cavern-rent, 
The  Pawnee's  lodge,  the  Arab's  tent, 

The  Bushman's  tree! 

Than  web  of  Persian  loom  most  rare, 

Or  soft  divan, 
Better  the  rough  rock,  bleak  and  bare, 
Or  hollow  tree,  which  man  may  share 

With  suffering  man. 

I  hear  a  voice  :  "  Thus  saith  the  Law, 

Let  Love  be  dumb ; 
Clasping  her  liberal  hands  in  awe, 
Let  sweet-lipped  Charity  withdraw 

From  hearth  and  home." 

I  hear  another  voice  :  "  The  poor 

Are  thine  to  feed  ; 
Turn  not  the  outcast  from  thy  door, 


MOLOCH  IN  STATE  STREET  165 


Nor  give  to  bonds  and  wrong  once  more 
Whom  God  hath  freed." 

Dear  Lord !  between  that  law  and  Thee 

No  choice  remains ; 
Yet  not  untrue  to  man's  decree, 
Though  spurning  its  rewards,  is  he 

Who  bears  its  pains. 

Not  mine  Sedition's  trumpet-blast 

And  threatening  word ; 
I  read  the  lesson  of  the  Past, 
That  firm  endurance  wins  at  last 

More  than  the  sword. 

O  clear-eyed  Faith,  and  Patience  thou 

So  calm  and  strong ! 
Lend  strength  to  weakness,  teach  us  how 
The  sleepless  eyes  of  God  look  through 

This  night  of  wrong ! 

1850. 

MOLOCH  IN  STATE  STREET. 

In  a  foot-note  of  the  Report  of  the  Senate  of  Massachusetts  on 
the  case  of  the  arrest  and  return  to  bondage  of  the  fugitive 
slave  Thomas  Sims  it  is  stated  that  — 

"  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  the  U.  S.  marshal  thus  suc- 
cessfully to  have  resisted  the  law  of  the  State,  without  the  assist- 
ance of  the  municipal  authorities  of  Boston,  and  the  countenance 
and  support  of  a  numerous,  wealthy,  and  powerful  body  of  cit- 
izens. It  was  in  evidence  that  1500  of  the  most  wealthy  and 
respectable  citizens  —  merchants,  bankers,  and  others  —  volun- 
teered their  services  to  aid  the  marshal  on  this  occasion.  .  .  .  No 
watch  was  kept  upon  the  doings  of  the  marshal,  and  while  the 


166  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

State  officers  slept,  after  the  moon  had  gone  down,  in  the  dark- 
est hour  before  daybreak,  the  accused  was  taken  out  of  our  ju- 
risdiction by  the  armed  police  of  the  city  of  Boston." 

The  moon  has  set :  while  yet  the  dawn 

Breaks  cold  and  gray, 
Between  the  midnight  and  the  morn 

Bear  off  your  prey ! 

On,  swift  and  still !  the  conscious  street 

Is  panged  and  stirred ; 
Tread  light !  that  fall  of  serried  feet 

The  dead  have  heard ! 


The  first  drawn  blood  of  Freedom's  veins 

Gushed  where  ye  tread  ; 
Lo  !  through  the  dusk  the  martyr-stains 

Blush  darkly  red ! 

Beneath  the  slowly  waning  stars 

And  whitening  day, 
What  stern  and  awful  presence  bars 

That  sacred  way  ? 

What  faces  frown  upon  ye,  dark 

With  shame  and  pain  ? 
Come  these  from  Plymouth's  Pilgrim  bark  ? 

Is  that  young  Yane  ? 

Who,  dimly  beckoning,  speed  ye  on 

With  mocking  cheer  ? 
Lo  !  spectral  Andros,  Hutchinson, 

And  Gage  are  here ! 


MOLOCH  IN  STATE  STREET  167 


For  ready  mart  or  favoring  blast 

Through  Moloch's  fire, 
Flesh  of  his  flesh,  unsparing,  passed 

The  Tyrian  sire. 

Ye  make  that  ancient  sacrifice 

Of  Man  to  Gain, 
Your  traffic  thrives,  where  Freedom  dies, 

Beneath  the  chain. 

Ye  sow  to-day ;  your  harvest,  scorn 

And  hate,  is  near  ; 
How  think  ye  freemen,  mountain-born, 

The  tale  will  hear  ? 

Thank  God  !  our  mother  State  can  yet 

Her  fame  retrieve ; 
To  you  and  to  your  children  let 

The  scandal  cleave. 

Chain  Hall  and  Pulpit,  Court  and  Press, 

Make  gods  of  gold  ; 
Let  honor,  truth,  and  manliness 

Like  wares  be  sold. 

Your  hoards  are  great,  your  walls  are  strong, 

But  God  is  just ; 
The  gilded  chambers  built  by  wrong 

Invite  the  rust. 

What !  know  ye  not  the  gains  of  Crime 

Are  dust  and  dross  ; 
Its  ventures  on  the  waves  of  time 

Foredoomed  to  loss ! 


168  ANTI-SLA  VER  Y  POEMS 


And  still  the  Pilgrim  State  remains 

What  she  hath  been ; 
Her  inland  hills,  her  seaward  plains, 

Still  nurture  men  ! 

Nor  wholly  lost  the  fallen  mart ; 

Her  olden  blood 
Through  many  a  free  and  generous  heart 

Still  pours  its  flood. 

That  brave  old  blood,  quick-flowing  yet, 

Shall  know  no  check, 
Till  a  free  people's  foot  is  set 

On  Slavery's  neck. 

Even  now,  the  peal  of  bell  and  gun, 

And  hills  aflame, 
Tell  of  the  first  great  triumph  won 

In  Freedom's  name.10 

The  long  night  dies  :  the  welcome  gray 

Of  dawn  we  see ; 
Speed  up  the  heavens  thy  perfect  day, 

God  of  the  free ! 

1851. 


OFFICIAL  PIETY. 

Suggested  by  reading  a  state  paper,  wherein  the  higher  law  is 
invoked  to  sustain  the  lower  one. 

A  pious  magistrate !  sound  his  praise  throughout 
The  wondering  churches.    Who  shall  henceforth 
doubt 


OFFICIAL  PIETY  169 

That  the  long- wished  millennium  draweth  nigh  ? 
Sin  in  high  places  has  become  devout, 

Tithes  mint,  goes  painful-faced,  and  prays  its  lie 
Straight  up  to  Heaven,  and  calls  it  piety ! 


The  pirate,  watching  from  his  bloody  deck 
The  weltering  galleon,  heavy  with  the  gold 

Of  Acapulco,  holding  death  in  check 

While  prayers  are  said,  brows  crossed,  and  beads 
are  told ; 

The  robber,  kneeling  where  the  wayside  cross 
On  dark  Abruzzo  tells  of  life's  dread  loss 
From  his  own  carbine,  glancing  still  abroad 
For  some  new  victim,  offering  thanks  to  God ! 

Borne,  listening  at  her  altars  to  the  cry 
Of  midnight  Murder,  while  her  hounds  of  hell 
Scour  France,  from  baptized  cannon  and  holy  bell 
And  thousand-throated  priesthood,  loud  and  high, 
Pealing  Te  Deums  to  the  shuddering  sky, 
"  Thanks  to  the  Lord,  who  giveth  victory !  " 
What  prove  these,  but  that  crime  was  ne'er  so 
black 

As  ghostly  cheer  and  pious  thanks  to  lack  ? 
Satan  is  modest.    At  Heaven's  door  he  lays 
His  evil  offspring,  and,  in  Scriptural  phrase 
And  saintly  posture,  gives  to  God  the  praise 
And  honor  of  the  monstrous  progeny. 
What  marvel,  then,  in  our  own  time  to  see 
His  old  devices,  smoothly  acted  o'er,  — 
Official  piety,  locking  fast  the  door 
Of  Hope  against  three  million  souls  of  men,  — 
Brothers,  God's  children,  Christ's  redeemed,  —  and 
then, 


170 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


With  uprolled  eyeballs  and  on  bended  knee, 
Whining  a  prayer  for  help  to  hide  the  key ! 

1853. 

THE  RENDITION. 

On  the  2d  of  June,  1854,  Anthony  Burns,  a  fugitive  slave  from 
Virginia,  after  being  under  arrest  for  ten  days  in  the  Boston  Court 
House,  was  remanded  to  slavery  under  the  Fugitive  Slave  Act, 
and  taken  down  State  Street  to  a  steamer  chartered  by  the  United 
States  Government,  under  guard  of  United  States  troops  and 
artillery,  Massachusetts  militia  and  Boston  police.  Public  excite- 
ment ran  high,  a  futile  attempt  to  rescue  Burns  having  been  made 
during  his  confinement,  and  the  streets  were  crowded  with  tens  of 
thousands  of  people,  of  whom  many  came  from  other  towns  and 
cities  of  the  State  to  witness  the  humiliating  spectacle. 

I  heakd  the  train's  shrill  whistle  call, 
I  saw  an  earnest  look  beseech, 
And  rather  by  that  look  than  speech 

My  neighbor  told  me  all. 

And,  as  I  thought  of  Liberty 

Marched  handcuffed  down  that  sworded  street, 

The  solid  earth  beneath  my  feet 
Reeled  fluid  as  the  sea. 

I  felt  a  sense  of  bitter  loss,  — 

Shame,  tearless  grief,  and  stifling  wrath, 

And  loathing  fear,  as  if  my  path 
A  serpent  stretched  across. 

All  love  of  home,  all  pride  of  place, 
All  generous  confidence  and  trust, 
Sank  smothering  in  that  deep  disgust 

And  anguish  of  disgrace. 


ARISEN  AT  LAST 


171 


Down  on  my  native  hills  of  June, 
And  home's  green  quiet,  hiding  all, 
Fell  sudden  darkness  like  the  fall 

Of  midnight  upon  noon  ! 

And  Law,  an  unloosed  maniac,  strong, 

Blood-drunken,  through  the  blackness  trod, 
Hoarse-shouting  in  the  ear  of  God 

The  blasphemy  of  wrong. 

"  O  Mother,  from  thy  memories  proud, 
Thy  old  renown,  dear  Commonwealth, 
Lend  this  dead  air  a  breeze  of  health, 
And  smite  with  stars  this  cloud. 

"  Mother  of  Freedom,  wise  and  brave, 
Rise  awful  in  thy  strength,"  I  said ; 
Ah  me !  I  spake  but  to  the  dead  ; 
I  stood  upon  her  grave ! 
6th  mo.,  1854. 

ARISEN  AT  LAST. 

On  the  passage  of  the  bill  to  protect  the  rights  and  liberties  of 
the  people  of  the  State  against  the  Fugitive  Slave  Act. 

I  said  I  stood  upon  thy  grave, 

My  Mother  State,  when  last  the  moon 
Of  blossoms  clomb  the  skies  of  June. 

And,  scattering  ashes  on  my  head, 
I  wore,  undreaming  of  relief, 
The  sackcloth  of  thy  shame  and  grief. 


172 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Again  that  moon  of  blossoms  shines 
On  leaf  and  flower  and  folded  wing, 
And  thou  hast  risen  with  the  spring ! 

Once  more  thy  strong  maternal  arms 
Are  round  about  thy  children  flung,  — • 
A  lioness  that  guards  her  young  ! 

No  threat  is  on  thy  closed  lips, 
But  in  thine  eye  a  power  to  smite 
The  mad  wolf  backward  from  its  light. 

Southward  the  baffled  robber's  track 
Henceforth  runs  only  ;  hereaway, 
The  fell  lycanthrope  finds  no  prey. 

Henceforth,  within  thy  sacred  gates, 
His  first  low  howl  shall  downward  draw 
The  thunder  of  thy  righteous  law. 

Not  mindless  of  thy  trade  and  gain, 
But,  acting  on  the  wiser  plan, 
Thou  'rt  grown  conservative  of  man. 

So  shalt  thou  clothe  with  life  the  hope, 
Dream-painted  on  the  sightless  eyes 
Of  him  who  sang  of  Paradise,  — 

The  vision  of  a  Christian  man, 
In  virtue,  as  in  stature  great 
Embodied  in  a  Christian  State. 


THE  HASCHISH 


173 


And  thou,  amidst  thy  sisterhood 
Forbearing  long,  yet  standing  fast, 
Shalt  win  their  grateful  thanks  at  last ; 

When  North  and  South  shall  strive  no  more, 
And  all  their  feuds  and  fears  be  lost 
In  Freedom's  holy  Pentecost. 
6th  mo.,  1855. 


THE  HASCHISH. 

Of  all  that  Orient  lands  can  vaunt 
Of  marvels  with  our  own  competing, 

The  strangest  is  the  Haschish  plant, 
And  what  will  follow  on  its  eating. 

What  pictures  to  the  taster  rise, 
Of  Dervish  or  of  Almeh  dances  ! 

Of  Eblis,  or  of  Paradise, 

Set  all  aglow  with  Houri  glances  ! 

The  poppy  visions  of  Cathay, 

The  heavy  beer-trance  of  the  Suabian  ; 
The  wizard  lights  and  demon  play 

Of  nights  Walpurgis  and  Arabian  ! 

The  Mollah  and  the  Christian  dog 

Change  place  in  mad  metempsychosis  ; 

The  Muezzin  climbs  the  synagogue, 
The  Eabbi  shakes  his  beard  at  Moses  ! 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


The  Arab  by  his  desert  well 

Sits  choosing  from  some  Caliph's  daughters, 
And  hears  his  single  camel's  bell 

Sound  welcome  to  his  regal  quarters. 

The  Koran's  reader  makes  complaint 
Of  Shitan  dancing  on  and  off  it ; 

The  robber  offers  alms,  the  saint 

Drinks  Tokay  and  blasphemes  the  Prophet 

Such  scenes  that  Eastern  plant  awakes ; 

But  we  have  one  ordained  to  beat  it, 
The  Haschish  of  the  West,  which  makes 

Or  fools  or  knaves  of  all  who  eat  it. 

The  preacher  eats,  and  straight  appears 

His  Bible  in  a  new  translation  ; 
Its  angels  negro  overseers, 

And  Heaven  itself  a  snug  plantation  ! 

The  man  of  peace,  about  whose  dreams 
The  sweet  millennial  angels  cluster, 

Tastes  the  mad  weed,  and  plots  and  schemes, 
A  raving  Cuban  filibuster  ! 

The  noisiest  Democrat,  with  ease, 
It  turns  to  Slavery's  parish  beadle ; 

The  shrewdest  statesman  eats  and  sees 
Due  southward  point  the  polar  needle. 

The  Judge  partakes,  and  sits  erelong 
Upon  his  bench  a  railing  blackguard  ; 


FOR  RIGHTEOUSNESS'  SAKE  175 


Decides  off-hand  that  right  is  wrong, 

And  reads  the  ten  commandments  backward. 

O  potent  plant !  so  rare  a  taste 

Has  never  Turk  or  Gentoo  gotten ; 

The  hempen  Haschish  of  the  East 
Is  powerless  to  our  Western  Cotton  ! 

1854. 

FOR  RIGHTEOUSNESS'  SAKE. 

Inscribed  to  friends  under  arrest  for  treason  against  the  slave 
power. 

The  age  is  dull  and  mean.    Men  creep, 
Not  walk  ;  with  blood  too  pale  and  tame 
To  pay  the  debt  they  owe  to  shame ; 

Buy  cheap,  sell  dear ;  eat,  drink,  and  sleep 
Down-pillowed,  deaf  to  moaning  want ; 

Pay  tithes  for  soul-insurance  ;  keep 
Six  days  to  Mammon,  one  to  Cant. 

In  such  a  time,  give  thanks  to  God, 

That  somewhat  of  the  holy  rage 

With  which  the  prophets  in  their  age 
On  all  its  decent  seemings  trod, 

Has  set  your  feet  upon  the  lie, 
That  man  and  ox  and  soul  and  clod 

Are  market  stock  to  sell  and  buy ! 

The  hot  words  from  your  lips,  my  own, 
To  caution  trained,  might  not  repeat ; 
But  if  some  tares  among  the  wheat 


176  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Of  generous  thought  and  deed  were  sown, 
No  common  wrong  provoked  your  zeal ; 

The  silken  gauntlet  that  is  thrown 
In  such  a  quarrel  rings  like  steel. 

The  brave  old  strife  the  fathers  saw 
For  Freedom  calls  for  men  again 
Like  those  who  battled  not  in  vain 

For  England's  Charter,  Alfred's  law ; 
And  right  of  speech  and  trial  just 

Wage  in  your  name  their  ancient  war 
With  venal  courts  and  perjured  trust. 

God's  ways  seem  dark,  but,  soon  or  late, 

They  touch  the  shining  hills  of  day  ; 

The  evil  cannot  brook  delay, 
The  good  can  well  afford  to  wait. 

Give  ermined  knaves  their  hour  of  crime  ; 
Ye  have  the  future  grand  and  great, 

The  safe  appeal  of  Truth  to  Time ! 
1855. 


THE  KANSAS  EMIGRANTS. 

This  poem  and  the  three  following  were  called  out  by  the 
popular  movement  of  Free  State  men  to  occupy  the  territory  of 
Kansas,  and  by  the  use  of  the  great  democratic  weapon  —  an  over- 
powering majority  —  to  settle  the  conflict  on  that  ground  between 
Freedom  and  Slavery.  The  opponents  of  the  movement  used 
another  kind  of  weapon. 

We  cross  the  prairie  as  of  old 

The  pilgrims  crossed  the  sea, 
To  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 

The  homestead  of  the  free  ! 


The  Kansas  Emigrants 


THE  KANSAS  EMIGRANTS  177 


We  go  to  rear  a  wall  of  men 

On  Freedom's  southern  line, 
And  plant  beside  the  cotton-tree 

The  rugged  Northern  pine  ! 

We  're  flowing  from  our  native  hills 

As  our  free  rivers  flow  ; 
The  blessing  of  our  Mother-land 

Is  on  us  as  we  go. 

We  go  to  plant  her  common  schools, 

On  distant  prairie  swells, 
And  give  the  Sabbaths  of  the  wild 

The  music  of  her  bells. 

Upbearing,  like  the  Ark  of  old, 

The  Bible  in  our  van, 
We  go  to  test  the  truth  of  God 

Against  the  fraud  of  man. 

No  pause,  nor  rest,  save  where  the  streams 

That  feed  the  Kansas  run, 
Save  where  our  Pilgrim  gonfalon 

Shall  flout  the  setting  sun  ! 

We  '11  tread  the  prairie  as  of  old 

Our  fathers  sailed  the  sea, 
And  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 

The  homestead  of  the  free  ! 

1854. 

vol.  m.  12 


178  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


LETTER 

FROM  A  MISSIONARY  OF  THE  METHODIST  EPISCOPAL 
CHURCH  SOUTH,  IN  KANSAS,  TO  A  DISTINGUISHED 
POLITICIAN. 

Douglas  Mission,  August,  1854. 
Last  week  —  the  Lord  be  praised  for  all  His 
mercies 

To  His  unworthy  servant !  —  I  arrived 
Safe  at  the  Mission,  via  Westport ;  where 
I  tarried  over  night,  to  aid  in  forming 
A  Vigilance  Committee,  to  send  back, 
In  shirts  of  tar,  and  feather-doublets  quilted 
With  forty  stripes  save  one,  all  Yankee  comers, 
Uncircumcised  and  Gentile,  aliens  from 
The  Commonwealth  of  Israel,  who  despise 
The  prize  of  the  high  calling  of  the  saints, 
Who  plant  amidst  this  heathen  wilderness 
Pure  gospel  institutions,  sanctified 
By  patriarchal  use.    The  meeting  opened 
With  prayer,  as  was  most  fitting.    Half  an  hour, 
Or  thereaway,  I  groaned,  and  strove,  and  wrestled, 
As  Jacob  did  at  Penuel,  till  the  power 
Fell  on  the  people,  and  they  cried  4  Amen ! ' 
"  Glory  to  God !  "  and  stamped  and  clapped  their 
hands ; 

And  the  rough  river  boatmen  wiped  their  eyes ; 
"  Go  it,  old  hoss !  "  they  cried,  and  cursed  the  nig- 
gers — 

Fulfilling  thus  the  word  of  prophecy, 

"  Cursed  be  Cannan."   After  prayer,  the  meeting 

Chose  a  committee  —  good  and  pious  men  — 


LETTER 


179 


A  Presbyterian  Elder,  Baptist  deacon, 

A  local  preacher,  three  or  four  class-leaders, 

Anxious  inquirers,  and  renewed  backsliders, 

A  score  in  all  —  to  watch  the  river  ferry, 

(As  they  of  old  did  watch  the  fords  of  Jordan,) 

And  cut  off  all  whose  Yankee  tongues  refuse 

The  Shibboleth  of  the  Nebraska  bill. 

And  then,  in  answer  to  repeated  calls, 

I  gave  a  brief  account  of  what  I  saw 

In  Washington  ;  and  truly  many  hearts 

Eejoiced  to  know  the  President,  and  you 

And  all  the  Cabinet  regularly  hear 

The  gospel  message  of  a  Sunday  morning, 

Drinking  with  thirsty  souls  of  the  sincere 

Milk  of  the  Word.    Glory  !  Amen,  and  Selah ! 

Here,  at  the  Mission,  all  things  have  gone  well  : 
The  brother  who,  throughout  my  absence,  acted 
As  overseer,  assures  me  that  the  crops 
Never  were  better.    I  have  lost  one  negro, 
A  first-rate  hand,  but  obstinate  and  sullen. 
He  ran  away  some  time  last  spring,  and  hid 
In  the  river  timber.    There  my  Indian  converts 
Found  him,  and  treed  and  shot  him.    For  the  rest, 
The  heathens  round  about  begin  to  feel 
The  influence  of  our  pious  ministrations 
And  works  of  love  ;  and  some  of  them  already 
Have  purchased  negroes,  and  are  settling  down 
As  sober  Christians !    Bless  the  Lord  for  this  ! 
I  know  it  will  rejoice  you.    You,  I  hear, 
Are  on  the  eve  of  visiting  Chicago, 
To  fight  with  the  wild  beasts  of  Ephesus, 
Long  John,  and  Dutch  Free-Soilers.    May  your 
arm 


180  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Be  clothed  with  strength,  and  on  your  tongue  be 
found 

The  sweet  oil  of  persuasion.    So  desires 
Your  brother  and  co-laborer.    Amen  ! 

P.  S.    All's  lost.    Even  while  I  write  these 
lines, 

The  Yankee  abolitionists  are  coming 
Upon  us  like  a  flood  —  grim,  stalwart  men, 
Each  face  set  like  a  flint  of  Plymouth  Pock 
Against  our  institutions  —  staking  out 
Their  farm  lots  on  the  wooded  Wakarusa, 
Or  squatting  by  the  mellow-bottomed  Kansas  ; 
The  pioneers  of  mightier  multitudes, 
The  small  rain-patter,  ere  the  thunder  shower 
Drowns  the  dry  prairies.    Hope  from  man  is  not. 
Oh,  for  a  quiet  berth  at  Washington, 
Snug  naval  chaplaincy,  or  clerkship,  where 
These  rumors  of  free  labor  and  free  soil 
Might  never  meet  me  more.    Better  to  be 
Door-keeper  in  the  White  House,  than  to  dwell 
Amidst  these  Yankee  tents,  that,  whitening,  show 
On  the  green  prairie  like  a  fleet  becalmed. 
Methinks  I  hear  a  voice  come  up  the  river 
From  those  far  bayous,  where  the  alligators 
Mount  guard  around  the  camping  filibusters  : 
"  Shake  off  the  dust  of  Kansas.    Turn  to  Cuba  — 
(That  golden  orange  just  about  to  fall, 
O'er-ripe,  into  the  Democratic  lap  ;) 
Keep  pace  with  Providence,  or,  as  we  say, 
Manifest  destiny.    Go  forth  and  follow 
The  message  of  our  gospel,  thither  borne 
Upon  the  point  of  Quitman's  bowie-knife, 


BURIAL  OF  BARBER  181 

And  the  persuasive  lips  of  Colt's  revolvers. 
There  may'st  thou,  underneath  thy  vine  and  fig- 
tree, 

Watch  thy  increase  of  sugar  cane  and  negroes, 
Calm  as  a  patriarch  in  his  eastern  tent!  " 
Amen  :  So  mote  it  be.    So  prays  your  friend. 


BURIAL  OF  BARBER. 

Thomas  Barber  was  shot  December  6,  1855,  near  Lawrence, 
Kansas. 

Bear  him,  comrades,  to  his  grave  ; 
Never  over  one  more  brave 

Shall  the  prairie  grasses  weep, 
In  the  ages  yet  to  come, 
When  the  millions  in  our  room, 

What  we  sow  in  tears,  shall  reap. 

Bear  him  up  the  icy  hill, 
With  the  Kansas,  frozen  still 

As  his  noble  heart,  below, 
And  the  land  he  came  to  till 
With  a  freeman's  thews  and  will, 

And  his  poor  hut  roofed  with  snow ! 

One  more  look  of  that  dead  face, 
Of  his  murder's  ghastly  trace  ! 

One  more  kiss,  O  widowed  one  ! 
Lay  your  left  hands  on  his  brow, 
Lift  your  right  hands  up,  and  vow 

That  his  work  shall  yet  be  done. 


182  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Patience,  friends  !    The  eye  of  God 
Every  path  by  Murder  trod 

Watches,  lidless,  day  and  night  : 
And  the  dead  man  in  his  shroud, 
And  his  widow  weeping  loud, 

And  our  hearts,  are  in  His  sight. 

Every  deadly  threat  that  swells 
With  the  roar  of  gambling  hells, 

Every  brutal  jest  and  jeer, 
Every  wicked  thought  and  plan 
Of  the  cruel  heart  of  man, 

Though  but  whispered,  He  can  hear ! 

We  in  suffering,  they  in  crime, 
Wait  the  just  award  of  time, 

Wait  the  vengeance  that  is  due  ; 
Not  in  vain  a  heart  shall  break, 
Not  a  tear  for  Freedom's  sake 

Fall  unheeded  :  God  is  true. 

While  the  flag  with  stars  bedecked 
Threatens  where  it  should  protect, 

And  the  Law  shakes  hands  with  Crime, 
What  is  left  us  but  to  wait, 
Match  our  patience  to  our  fate, 

And  abide  the  better  time  ? 

Patience,  friends  !    The  human  heart 
Everywhere  shall  take  our  part, 

Everywhere  for  us  shall  pray ; 
On  our  side  are  nature's  laws, 


BURIAL  OF  BARBER 


183 


And  God's  life  is  in  the  cause 
That  we  suffer  for  to-day. 

"Well  to  suffer  is  divine  ; 

Pass  the  watchword  down  the  line, 

Pass  the  countersign  :  "  Endure." 
Not  to  him  who  rashly  dares, 
But  to  him  who  nobly  bears, 

Is  the  victor's  garland  sure. 

Frozen  earth  to  frozen  breast, 
Lay  our  slain  one  down  to  rest ; 

Lay  him  down  in  hope  and  faith, 
And  above  the  broken  sod, 
Once  again,  to  Freedom's  God, 

Pledge  ourselves  for  life  or  death, 

That  the  State  whose  walls  we  lay. 
In  our  blood  and  tears,  to-day, 

Shall  be  free  from  bonds  of  shame, 
And  our  goodly  land  untrod 
By  the  feet  of  Slavery,  shod 

With  cursing  as  with  flame  ! 

Plant  the  Buckeye  on  his  grave, 
For  the  hunter  of  the  slave 

In  its  shadow  cannot  rest ; 
And  let  martyr  mound  and  tree 
Be  our  pledge  and  guaranty 

Of  the  freedom  of  the  West ! 

1856. 


184 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


TO  PENNSYLVANIA. 

O  State  prayer-founded  !  never  hung 
Such  choice  upon  a  people's  tongue, 

Such  power  to  bless  or  ban, 
As  that  which  makes  thy  whisper  Fate, 
For  which  on  thee  the  centuries  wait, 

And  destinies  of  man  ! 

Across  thy  Alleghanian  chain, 
With  groanings  from  a  land  in  pain, 

The  west-wind  finds  its  way  : 
Wild-wailing  from  Missouri's  flood 
The  crying  of  thy  children's  blood 

Is  in  thy  ears  to-day ! 

And  unto  thee  in  Freedom's  hour 
Of  sorest  need  God  gives  the  power 

To  ruin  or  to  save  ; 
To  wound  or  heal,  to  blight  or  bless 
With  fertile  field  or  wilderness, 

A  free  home  or  a  grave  ! 

Then  let  thy  virtue  match  the  crime, 
Rise  to  a  level  with  the  time ; 

And,  if  a  son  of  thine 
Betray  or  tempt  thee,  Brutus-like 
For  Fatherland  and  Freedom  strike 

As  Justice  gives  the  sign. 

Wake,  sleeper,  from  thy  dream  of  ease, 
The  great  occasion's  forelock  seize ; 
And  let  the  north-wind  strong, 


LE  MARAIS  DU  CYGNE 


185 


And  golden  leaves  of  autumn,  be 
Thy  coronal  of  Victory 
And  thy  triumphal  song. 

10th  mo.,  1856. 


LE  MARAIS  DU  CYGNE. 

The  massacre  of  unarmed  and  unoffending  men,  in  Southern 
Kansas,  in  May,  1858,  took  place  near  the  Marais  du  Cygne  of 
the  French  voyageurs. 

A  blush  as  of  roses 

Where  rose  never  grew ! 
Great  drops  on  the  bunch-grass, 

But  not  of  the  dew  ! 
A  taint  in  the  sweet  air 

For  wild  bees  to  shun  ! 
A  stain  that  shall  never 

Bleach  out  in  the  sun  ! 


Back,  steed  of  the  prairies  ! 

Sweet  song-bird,  fly  back  ! 
Wheel  hither,  bald  vulture ! 

Gray  wolf,  call  thy  pack  ! 
The  foul  human  vultures 

Have  feasted  and  fled ; 
The  wolves  of  the  Border 

Have  crept  from  the  dead. 

From  the  hearths  of  their  cabins, 
The  fields  of  their  corn, 

Unwarned  and  unweaponed, 
The  victims  were  torn,  — 

By  the  whirlwind  of  murder 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

Swooped  up  and  swept  on 
To  the  low,  reedy  fen-lands, 
The  Marsh  of  the  Swan. 

With  a  vain  plea  for  mercy 

No  stout  knee  was  crooked  ; 
In  the  mouths  of  the  rifles 

Eight  manly  they  looked. 
How  paled  the  May  sunshine, 

O  Marais  du  Cygne  ! 
On  death  for  the  strong  life, 

On  red  grass  for  green  ! 

In  the  homes  of  their  rearing, 

Yet  warm  with  their  lives, 
Ye  wait  the  dead  only, 

Poor  children  and  wives ! 
Put  out  the  red  forge-fire, 

The  smith  shall  not  come ; 
Unyoke  the  brown  oxen, 

The  ploughman  lies  dumb. 

Wind  slow  from  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

O  dreary  death-train, 
With  pressed  lips  as  bloodless 

As  lips  of  the  slain ! 
Kiss  down  the  young  eyelids, 

Smooth  down  the  gray  hairs  ; 
Let  tears  quench  the  curses 

That  burn  through  your  prayers. 


Strong  man  of  the  prairies, 
Mourn  bitter  and  wild ! 


THE  PASS  OF  THE  SIERRA 


187 


Wail,  desolate  woman ! 

Weep,  fatherless  child  ! 
But  the  grain  of  God  springs  up 

From  ashes  beneath, 
And  the  crown  of  his  harvest 

Is  life  out  of  death. 

Not  in  vain  on  the  dial 

The  shade  moves  along, 
To  point  the  great  contrasts 

Of  right  and  of  wrong : 
Free  homes  and  free  altars, 

Free  prairie  and  flood,  — 
The  reeds  of  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

Whose  bloom  is  of  blood ! 

On  the  lintels  of  Kansas 

That  blood  shall  not  dry ; 
Henceforth  the  Bad  Angel 

Shall  harmless  go  by ; 
Henceforth  to  the  sunset, 

Unchecked  on  her  way, 
Shall  Liberty  follow 

The  march  of  the  day. 

1858. 


THE  PASS  OF  THE  SIERRA 

All  night  above  their  rocky  bed 
They  saw  the  stars  march  slow ; 

The  wild  Sierra  overhead, 
The  desert's  death  below. 


188  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


The  Indian  from  his  lodge  of  bark, 
The  gray  bear  from  his  den, 

Beyond  their  camp-fire's  wall  of  dark, 
Glared  on  the  mountain  men. 

Still  upward  turned,  with  anxious  strain, 

Their  leader's  sleepless  eye, 
Where  splinters  of  the  mountain  chain 

Stood  black  against  the  sky. 

The  night  waned  slow :  at  last,  a  glow, 

A  gleam  of  sudden  fire, 
Shot  up  behind  the  walls  of  snow, 

And  tipped  each  icy  spire. 

"  Up,  men !  "  he  cried,  "  yon  rocky  cone, 
To-day,  please  God,  we  '11  pass, 
And  look  from  Winter's  frozen  throne 
On  Summer's  flowers  and  grass  !  " 

They  set  their  faces  to  the  blast, 

They  trod  the  eternal  snow, 
And  faint,  worn,  bleeding,  hailed  at  last 

The  promised  land  below. 

Behind,  they  saw  the  snow-cloud  tossed 

By  many  an  icy  horn  ; 
Before,  warm  valleys,  wood-embossed, 

And  green  with  vines  and  corn. 

They  left  the  Winter  at  their  backs 

To  flap  his  baffled  wing, 
And  downward,  with  the  cataracts, 

Leaped  to  the  lap  of  Spring. 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  TIME 


189 


Strong  leader  of  that  mountain  band, 

Another  task  remains, 
To  break  from  Slavery's  desert  land 

A  path  to  Freedom's  plains. 

The  winds  are  wild,  the  way  is  drear, 
Yet,  flashing  through  the  night, 

Lo !  icy  ridge  and  rocky  spear 
Blaze  out  in  morning  light ! 

Rise  up,  Fremont !  and  go  before  ; 

The  Hour  must  have  its  Man ; 
Put  on  the  hunting-shirt  once  more, 

And  lead  in  Freedom's  van  ! 
8th  mo.,  1856. 

A  SONG  FOR  THE  TIME. 

Written  in  the  summer  of  1856,  during  the  political  campaign 
of  the  Free  Soil  party  under  the  candidacy  of  John  C.  Fremont. 

Up,  laggards  of  Freedom  !  —  our  free  flag  is  cast 
To  the  blaze  of  the  sun  and  the  wings  of  the  blast ; 
Will  ye  turn  from  a  struggle  so  bravely  begun, 
From  a  foe  that  is  breaking,  a  field  that 's  half  won  ? 

Whoso  loves  not  his  kind,  and  who  fears  not  the 
Lord, 

Let  him  join  that  foe's  service,  accursed  and  ab- 
horred ! 

Let  him  do  his  base  will,  as  the  slave  only  can,  — 
Let  him  put  on  the  bloodhound,  and  put  off  the 
Man! 


190 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Let  him  go  where  the  cold  blood  that  creeps  in  his 
veins 

Shall  stiffen  the  slave-whip,  and  rust  on  his  chains  : 
Where  the  black  slave  shall  laugh  in  his  bonds,  to 
behold 

The  White  Slave  beside  him,  self -fettered  and  sold  ! 

But  ye,  who  still  boast  of  hearts  beating  and  warm, 
Eise,  from  lake  shore  and  ocean's,  like  waves  in  a 
storm, 

Come,  throng  round  our  banner  in  Liberty's  name, 
Like  winds  from  your  mountains,  like  prairies 
aflame  ! 

Our  foe,  hidden  long  in  his  ambush  of  night, 
Xow,  forced  from  his  covert,  stands  black  in  the 
light. 

Oh,  the  cruel  to  Man,  and  the  hateful  to  God, 
Smite  him  down  to  the  earth,  that  is  cursed  where 
he  trod  ! 

For  deeper  than  thunder  of  summer's  loud  shower, 
On  the  dome  of  the  sky  God  is  striking  the  hour ! 
Shall  we  falter  before  what  we  've  prayed  for  so 
long, 

Yrhen  the  Wrong  is  so  weak,  and  the  Eight  is  so 
strong  ? 

Come  forth  all  together  !  come  old  and  come  young, 
Freedom's  vote  in  each  hand,  and  her  song  on  each 
tongue ; 

Truth  naked  is  stronger  than  Falsehood  in  mail ; 
The  Wrong  cannot  prosper,  the  Eight  cannot  fail ! 


WHAT  OF  THE  DAY?  191 


Like  leaves  of  the  summer  once  numbered  the  foe, 
But  the  hoar-frost  is  falling,  the  northern  winds 
blow; 

Like  leaves  of  November  erelong  shall  they  fall, 
For  earth  wearies  of  them,  and  God 's  over  all ! 


WHAT  OF  THE  DAY  ? 

Written  during  the  stirring  weeks  when  the  great  political  bat- 
tle for  Freedom  under  Fremont's  leadership  was  permitting  strong 
hope  of  success,  —  a  hope  overshadowed  and  solemnized  by  a 
sense  of  the  magnitude  of  the  barbaric  evil,  and  a  forecast  of  the 
unscrupulous  and  desperate  use  of  all  its  powers  in  the  last  and 
decisive  struggle. 

A  sound  of  tumult  troubles  all  the  air, 
Like  the  low  thunders  of  a  sultry  sky 

Far-rolling  ere  the  downright  lightnings  glare  ; 
The  hills  blaze  red  with  warnings ;  foes  draw  nigh, 
Treading  the  dark  with  challenge  and  reply. 

Behold  the  burden  of  the  prophet's  vision  ; 

The  gathering  hosts,  —  the  Valley  of  Decision, 
Dusk  with  the  wings  of  eagles  wheeling  o'er. 

Day  of  the  Lord,  of  darkness  and  not  light ! 
It  breaks  in  thunder  and  the  whirlwind's  roar ! 

Even  so,  Father  !    Let  Thy  will  be  done ; 

Turn  and  o'erturn,  end  what  Thou  hast  begun 

In  judgment  or  in  mercy  :  as  for  me, 

If  but  the  least  and  frailest,  let  me  be 

Evermore  numbered  with  the  truly  free 

Who  find  Thy  service  perfect  liberty ! 

I  fain  would  thank  Thee  that  my  mortal  life 

Has  reached  the  hour  (albeit  through  care  and 
pain) 


192 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


When  Good  and  Evil,  as  for  final  strife, 

Close  dim  and  vast  on  Armageddon's  plain ; 
And  Michael  and  his  angels  once  again 

Drive  howling  back  the  Spirits  of  the  Night. 
Oh  for  the  faith  to  read  the  signs  aright 
And,  from  the  angle  of  Thy  perfect  sight, 

See  Truth's  white  banner  floating  on  before ; 

And  the  Good  Cause,  despite  of  venal  friends, 

And  base  expedients,  move  to  noble  ends  ; 

See  Peace  with  Freedom  make  to  Time  amends, 
And,  through  its  cloud  of  dust,  the  threshing-floor, 

Flailed  by  the  thunder,  heaped  with  chaffless 
grain ! 

1856. 

A  SONG, 

INSCRIBED  TO  THE  FREMONT  CLUBS. 

Written  after  the  election  in  1856,  which  showed  the  immense 
gains  of  the  Free  Soil  party,  and  insured  its  success  in  1860. 

Beneath  thy  skies,  November  \ 

Thy  skies  of  cloud  and  rain, 
Around  our  blazing  camp-fires 
We  close  our  ranks  again. 
Then  sound  again  the  bugles, 
Call  the  muster-roll  anew ; 
If  months  have  well-nigh  won  the  field, 
What  may  not  four  years  do  ? 

For  God  be  praised !    New  England 
Takes  once  more  her  ancient  place  ; 

Again  the  Pilgrim's  banner 

Leads  the  vanguard  of  the  race. 
Then  sound  again  the  bugles,  etc. 


THE  PANORAMA 


193 


Along  the  lordly  Hudson, 

A  shout  of  triumph  breaks  ; 
The  Empire  State  is  speaking, 

From  the  ocean  to  the  lakes. 

Then  sound  again  the  bugles,  etc. 

The  Northern  hills  are  blazing, 
The  Northern  skies  are  bright ; 

And  the  fair  young  West  is  turning 
Her  forehead  to  the  light ! 

Then  sound  again  the  bugles,  etc. 

Push  every  outpost  nearer, 

Press  hard  the  hostile  towers ! 
Another  Balaklava, 

And  the  Malakoff  is  ours! 
Then  sound  again  the  bugles, 
Call  the  muster-roll  anew ; 
If  months  have  well-nigh  won  the  field, 
What  may  not  four  years  do  ? 

THE  PANORAMA. 

"  A !  f  redome  is  a  nobill  thing ! 
Fredome  mayse  man  to  haif  liking. 
Fredome  all  solace  to  man  giffis ; 
He  levys  at  ese  that  f rely  levys ! 
A  nobil  hart  may  haif  nane  ese 
Na  ellys  noeht  that  may  him  plese 
Gyff  Fredome  failythe." 

Archdeacon  Barbour. 

Through  the  long  hall  the  shuttered  windows 
shed 

A  dubious  light  on  every  upturned  head ; 

vol.  in.  13 


194  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


On  locks  like  those  of  Absalom  the  fair, 

On  the  bald  apex  ringed  with  scanty  hair, 

On  blank  indifference  and  on  curious  stare  ; 

On  the  pale  Showman  reading  from  his  stage 

The  hieroglyphics  of  that  facial  page ; 

Half  sad,  half  scornful,  listening  to  the  bruit 

Of  restless  cane-tap  and  impatient  foot, 

And  the  shrill  call,  across  the  general  din, 

"  Roll  up  your  curtain  !    Let  the  show  begin !  " 

At  length  a  murmur  like  the  winds  that  break 
Into  green  waves  the  prairie's  grassy  lake, 
Deepened  and  swelled  to  music  clear  and  loud, 
And,  as  the  west-wind  lifts  a  summer  cloud, 
The  curtain  rose,  disclosing  wide  and  far 
A  green  land  stretching  to  the  evening  star, 
Fair  rivers,  skirted  by  primeval  trees 
And  flowers  hummed  over  by  the  desert  bees, 
Marked  by  tall  bluffs  whose  slopes  of  greenness 
show 

Fantastic  outcrops  of  the  rock  below ; 
The  slow  result  of  patient  Nature's  pains, 
And  plastic  fingering  of  her  sun  and  rains  ; 
Arch,  tower,  and    gate,   grotesquely  windowed 
hall, 

And  long  escarpment  of  half-crumbled  wall, 
Huger  than  those  which,  from  steep  hills  of  vine, 
Stare  through  their  loopholes  on  the  travelled 
Rhine ; 

Suggesting  vaguely  to  the  gazer's  mind 
A  fancy,  idle  as  the  prairie  wind, 
Of  the  land's  dwellers  in  an  age  unguessed ; 
The  unsung  J otuns  of  the  mystic  West. 


THE  PANORAMA 


195 


Beyond,  the  prairie's  sea-like  swells  surpass 
The  Tartar's  marvels  of  his  Land  of  Grass, 
Vast  as  the  sky  against  whose  sunset  shores 
Wave  after  wave  the  billowy  greenness  pours ; 
And,  onward  still,  like  islands  in  that  main 
Loom  the  rough  peaks  of  many  a  mountain  chain, 
Whence  east  and  west  a  thousand  waters  run 
From  winter  lingering  under  summer's  sun. 
And,  still  beyond,  long  lines  of  foam  and  sand 
Tell  where  Pacific  rolls  his  waves  a-land, 
From  many  a  wide-lapped  port  and  land-locked  bay, 
Opening  with  thunderous  pomp  the  world's  high- 
way 

To  Indian  isles  of  spice,  and  marts  of  far  Cathay. 

"  Such,"  said  the  Showman,  as  the  curtain  fell, 
"  Is  the  new  Canaan  of  our  Israel ; 
The  land  of  promise  to  the  swarming  North, 
Which,  hive-like,  sends  its  annual  surplus  forthT 
To  the  poor  Southron  on  his  worn-out  soil, 
Scathed  by  the  curses  of  unnatural  toil ; 
To  Europe's  exiles  seeking  home  and  rest, 
And  the  lank  nomads  of  the  wandering  West, 
Who,  asking  neither,  in  their  love  of  change 
And  the  free  bison's  amplitude  of  range, 
Kear  the  log-hut,  for  present  shelter  meant, 
Not  future  comfort,  like  an  Arab's  tent." 

Then  spake  a  shrewd  on-looker,  "  Sir,"  said  he, 
"  I  like  your  picture,  but  I  fain  would  see 
A  sketch  of  what  your  promised  land  will  be 
When,  with  electric  nerve,  and  fiery-brained, 
With  Nature's  forces  to  its  chariot  chained, 


196 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


The  future  grasping,  by  the  past  obeyed, 
The  twentieth  century  rounds  a  new  decade." 

Then  said  the  Showman,  sadly  :  "  He  who  grieves 
Over  the  scattering  of  the  sibyl's  leaves 
Unwisely  mourns.    Suffice  it,  that  we  know 
What  needs  must  ripen  from  the  seed  we  sow ; 
That  present  time  is  but  the  mould  wherein 
We  cast  the  shapes  of  holiness  and  sin. 
A  painful  watcher  of  the  passing  hour, 
Its  lust  of  gold,  its  strife  for  place  and  power ; 
Its  lack  of  manhood,  honor,  reverence,  truth, 
Wise-thoughted  age,  and  generous-hearted  youth ; 
Nor  yet  unmindful  of  each  better  sign, 
The  low,  far  lights,  which  on  th'  horizon  shine, 
Like  those  which  sometimes  tremble  on  the  rim 
Of  clouded  skies  when  day  is  closing  dim, 
Flashing  athwart  the  purple  spears  of  rain 
The  hope  of  sunshine  on  the  hills  again : 
I  need  no  prophet's  word,  nor  shapes  that  pass 
like  clouding  shadows  o'er  a  magic  glass ; 
For  now,  as  ever,  passionless  and  cold, 
Doth  the  dread  angel  of  the  future  hold 
Evil  and  good  before  us,  with  no  voice 
Or  warning  look  to  guide  us  in  our  choice ; 
With  spectral  hands  outreaching  through  the  gloom 
The  shadowy  contrasts  of  the  coming  doom. 
Transferred  from  these,  it  now  remains  to  give 
The  sun  and  shade  of  Fate's  alternative." 

Then,  with  a  burst  of  music,  touching  all 
The  keys  of  thrifty  life,  —  the  mill-stream's  fall, 
The  engine's  pant  along  its  quivering  rails, 


THE  PANORAMA 


197 


The  anvil's  ring,  the  measured  beat  of  flails, 
The  sweep  of  scythes,  the  reaper's  whistled  tune, 
Answering  the  summons  of  the  bells  of  noon, 
The  woodman's  hail  along  the  river  shores, 
The  steamboat's  signal,  and  the  dip  of  oars : 
Slowly  the  curtain  rose  from  off  a  land 
Fair  as  God's  garden.    Broad  on  either  hand 
The  golden  wheat-fields  glimmered  in  the  sun, 
And  the  tall  maize  its  yellow  tassels  spun. 
Smooth  highways  set  with  hedge-rows  living  green, 
With  steepled  towns  through  shaded  vistas  seen, 
The  school-house   murmuring  with  its  hive-like 
swarm, 

The  brook-bank  whitening  in  the  grist-mill's  storm, 
The  painted  farm-house  shining  through  the  leaves 
Of  fruited  orchards  bending  at  its  eaves, 
Where  live  again,  around  the  Western  hearth, 
The  homely  old-time  virtues  of  the  North ; 
Where  the  blithe  housewife  rises  with  the  day, 
And  well-paid  labor  counts  his  task  a  play. 
And,  grateful  tokens  of  a  Bible  free, 
And  the  free  Gospel  of  Humanity, 
Of  diverse  sects  and  differing  names  the  shrines, 
One  in  their  faith,  whate'er  their  outward  signs, 
Like  varying  strophes  of  the  same  sweet  hymn 
From  many  a  prairie's  swell  and  river's  brim, 
A  thousand  church-spires  sanctify  the  air 
Of  the  calm  Sabbath,  with  their  sign  of  prayer. 

Like  sudden  nightfall  over  bloom  and  green 
The  curtain  dropped  :  and,  momently,  between 
The  clank  of  fetter  and  the  crack  of  thong, 
Half  sob,  half  laughter,  music  swept  along ; 


198  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


A  strange  refrain,  whose  idle  words  and  low, 
Like  drunken  mourners,  kept  the  time  of  woe ; 
As  if  the  revellers  at  a  masquerade 
Heard  in  the  distance  funeral  marches  played. 
Such  music,  dashing  all  his  smiles  with  tears, 
The  thoughtful  voyager  on  Ponchartrain  hears, 
Where,  through  the  noonday  dusk  of  wooded  shores 
The  negro  boatman,  singing  to  his  oars, 
With  a  wild  pathos  borrowed  of  his  wrong 
Redeems  the  jargon  of  his  senseless  song. 
"  Look,"  said  the  Showman,  sternly,  as  he  rolled 
His  curtain  upward.    "  Fate's  reverse  behold  !  " 

A  village  straggling  in  loose  disarray 
Of  vulgar  newness,  premature  decay ; 
A  tavern,  crazy  with  its  whiskey  brawls, 
With  "  Slaves  at  Auction!  "  garnishing  its  walls  ; 
Without,  surrounded  by  a  motley  crowd, 
The  shrewd-eyed  salesman,  garrulous  and  loud, 
A  squire  or  colonel  in  his  pride  of  place, 
Known  at  free  fights,  the  caucus,  and  the  race, 
Prompt  to  proclaim  his  honor  without  blot, 
And  silence  doubters  with  a  ten-pace  shot, 
Mingling  the  negro-driving  bully's  rant 
With  pious  phrase  and  democratic  cant, 
Yet  never  scrupling,  with  a  filthy  jest, 
To  sell  the  infant  from  its  mother's  breast, 
Break  through  all  ties  of  wedlock,  home,  and  kin5 
Yield  shrinking  girlhood  up  to  graybeard  sin  ; 
Sell  all  the  virtues  with  his  human  stock, 
The  Christian  graces  on  his  auction-block, 
And  coolly  count  on  shrewdest  bargains  driven 
In  hearts  regenerate,  and  in  souls  forgiven ! 


THE  PANORAMA 


199 


Look  once  again !    The  moving  canvas  shows 
A  slave  plantation's  slovenly  repose, 
Where,  in  rude  cabins  rotting  midst  their  weeds, 
The  human  chattel  eats,  and  sleeps,  and  breeds ; 
And,  held  a  brute,  in  practice,  as  in  law, 
Becomes  in  fact  the  thing  he 's  taken  for. 
There,  early  summoned  to  the  hemp  and  corn, 
The  nursing  mother  leaves  her  child  new-born ; 
There  haggard  sickness,  weak  and  deathly  faint, 
Crawls  to  his  task,  and  fears  to  make  complaint ; 
And  sad-eyed  Eachels,  childless  in  decay, 
Weep  for  their  lost  ones  sold  and  torn  away ! 
Of  ampler  size  the  master's  dwelling  stands, 
In  shabby  keeping  with  his  half-tilled  lands  ; 
The  gates  unhinged,  the  yard  with  weeds  unclean, 
The  cracked  veranda  with  a  tipsy  lean. 
Without,  loose-scattered  like  a  wreck  adrift, 
Signs  of  misrule  and  tokens  of  unthrift ; 
Within,  profusion  to  discomfort  joined, 
The  listless  body  and  the  vacant  mind ; 
The  fear,  the  hate,  the  theft  and  falsehood,  born 
In  menial  hearts  of  toil,  and  stripes,  and  scorn  ! 
There,  all  the  vices,  which,  like  birds  obscene, 
Batten  on  slavery  loathsome  and  unclean, 
From  the  foul  kitchen  to  the  parlor  rise, 
Pollute  the  nursery  where  the  child-heir  lies, 
Taint  infant  lips  beyond  all  after  cure, 
With  the  fell  poison  of  a  breast  impure  ; 
Touch  boyhood's  passions  with  the  breath  of  flame, 
From  girlhood's  instincts  steal  the  blush  of  shame. 
So  swells,  from  low  to  high,  from  weak  to  strong, 
The  tragic  chorus  of  the  baleful  wrong ; 
Guilty  or  guiltless,  all  within  its  range 
Feel  the  blind  justice  of  its  sure  revenge. 


V 


200 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Still  scenes  like  these  the  moving  chart  reveals. 
Up  the  long  western  steppes  the  blighting  steals ; 
Down  the  Pacific  slope  the  evil  Fate 
Glides  like  a  shadow  to  the  Golden  Gate  : 
From  sea  to  sea  the  drear  eclipse  is  thrown, 
From  sea  to  sea  the  Mauvaises  Terres  have  grown, 
A  belt  of  curses  on  the  New  World's  zone  ! 

The  curtain  fell.    All  drew  a  freer  breath, 
As  men  are  wont  to  do  when  mournful  death 
Is  covered  from  their  sight.    The  Showman  stood 
With  drooping  brow  in  sorrow's  attitude 
One  moment,  then  with  sudden  gesture  shook 
His  loose  hair  back,  and  with  the  air  and  look 
Of  one  who  felt,  beyond  the  narrow  stage 
And  listening  group,  the  presence  of  the  age, 
And  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  things  to  be, 
Poured  out  his  soul  in  earnest  words  and  free. 

"  O  friends ! "  he  said,  "  in  this  poor  trick  of 
paint 

You  see  the  semblance,  incomplete  and  faint, 
Of  the  two-fronted  Future,  which,  to-day, 
Stands  dim  and  silent,  waiting  in  your  way. 
To-day,  your  servant,  subject  to  your  will ; 
To-morrow,  master,  or  for  good  or  ill. 
If  the  dark  face  of  Slavery  on  you  turns, 
If  the  mad  curse  its  paper  barrier  spurns, 
If  the  world  granary  of  the  West  is  made 
The  last  foul  market  of  the  slaver's  trade, 
Why  rail  at  fate  ?    The  mischief  is  your  own. 
Why  hate  your  neighbor  ?     Blame  yourselves 
alone! 


THE  PANORAMA 


201 


"  Men  of  the  North !    The  South  you  charge 
with  wrong 

Is  weak  and  poor,  while  you  are  rich  and  strong. 

If  questions,  —  idle  and  absurd  as  those 

The  old-time  monks  and  Paduan  doctors  chose,  — 

Mere  ghosts  of  questions,  tariffs,  and  dead  banks, 

And  scarecrow  pontiffs,  never  broke  your  ranks, 

Your  thews  united  could,  at  once,  roll  back 

The  jostled  nation  to  its  primal  track. 

Nay,  were  you  simply  steadfast,  manly,  just, 

True  to  the  faith  your  fathers  left  in  trust, 

If  stainless  honor  outweighed  in  your  scale 

A  codfish  quintal  or  a  factory  bale, 

Full  many  a  noble  heart,  (and  such  remain 

In  all  the  South,  like  Lot  in  Siddim's  plain, 

Who  watch  and  wait,  and  from  the  wrong's  control 

Keep  white  and  pure  their  chastity  of  soul,) 

Now  sick  to  loathing  of  your  weak  complaints, 

Your  tricks  as  sinners,  and  your  prayers  as  saints, 

Would  half-way  meet  the  frankness  of  your  tone, 

And  feel  their  pulses  beating  with  your  own. 

"  The  North !  the  South !  no  geographic  line 
Can  fix  the  boundary  or  the  point  define, 
Since  each  with  each  so  closely  interblends, 
Where  Slavery  rises,  and  where  Freedom  ends. 
Beneath  your  rocks  the  roots,  far-reaching,  hide 
Of  the  fell  Upas  on  the  Southern  side  ; 
The  tree  whose  branches  in  your  northwinds  wave 
Dropped  its  young  blossoms  on  Mount  Vernon's 
grave ; 

The  nursling  growth  of  Monticello's  crest 
Is  now  the  glory  of  the  free  Northwest ; 


202  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


To  the  wise  maxims  of  her  olden  school 
Virginia  listened  from  thy  lips,  Rantoul ; 
Seward's  words  of  power,  and  Sumner's  fresh  re- 
nown, 

Flow  from  the  pen  that  J efferson  laid  down  ! 
And  when,  at  length,  her  years  of  madness  o'er, 
Like  the  crowned  grazer  on  Euphrates'  shore, 
From  her  long  lapse  to  savagery,  her  mouth 
Bitter  with  baneful  herbage,  turns  the  South, 
Resumes  her  old  attire,  and  seeks  to  smooth 
Her  unkempt  tresses  at  the  glass  of  truth, 
Her  early  faith  shall  find  a  tongue  again, 
New  Wythes  and  Pinckneys  swell  that  old  refrain, 
Her  sons  with  yours  renew  the  ancient  pact, 
The  myth  of  Union  prove  at  last  a  fact ! 
Then,  if  one  murmur  mars  the  wide  content, 
Some  Northern  lip  will  drawl  the  last  dissent, 
Some  Union-saving  patriot  of  your  own 
Lament  to  find  his  occupation  gone. 

"  Grant  that  the  North 's  insulted,  scorned,  be- 
trayed, 

O'erreached  in  bargains  with  her  neighbor  made, 
When  selfish  thrift  and  party  held  the  scales 
For  peddling  dicker,  not  for  honest  sales,  — 
Whom  shall  we  strike  ?    Who  most  deserves  our 
blame  ? 

The  braggart  Southron,  open  in  his  aim, 

And  bold  as  wicked,  crashing  straight  through  all 

That  bars  his  purpose,  like  a  cannon-ball  ? 

Or  the  mean  traitor,  breathing  northern  air, 

With  nasal  speech  and  puritanic  hair, 

Whose  cant  the  loss  of  principle  survives, 

As  the  mud-turtle  e'en  its  head  outlives  ; 


THE  PANORAMA 


203 


Who,  caught,  chin-buried  in  some  foul  offence, 
Puts  on  a  look  of  injured  innocence, 
And  consecrates  his  baseness  to  the  cause 
Of  constitution,  union,  and  the  laws  ? 

"  Praise  to  the  place-man  who  can  hold  aloof 
His  still  unpurchased  manhood,  office-proof ; 
Who  on  his  round  of  duty  walks  erect, 
And  leaves  it  only  rich  in  self-respect ; 
As  More  maintained  his  virtue's  lofty  port 
In  the  Eighth  Henry's  base  and  bloody  court. 
But,  if  exceptions  here  and  there  are  found, 
Who  tread  thus  safely  on  enchanted  ground, 
The  normal  type,  the  fitting  symbol  still 
Of  those  who  fatten  at  the  public  mill, 
Is  the  chained  dog  beside  his  master's  door, 
Or  Circe's  victim,  feeding  on  all  four ! 

"  Give  me  the  heroes  who,  at  tuck  of  drum, 
Salute  thy  staff,  immortal  Quattlebum  ! 
Or  they  who,  doubly  armed  with  vote  and  gun, 
Following  thy  lead,  illustrious  Atchison, 
Their  drunken  franchise  shift  from  scene  to  scene, 
As  tile-beard  Jourdan  did  his  guillotine  ! 
Rather  than  him  who,  born  beneath  our  skies, 
To  Slavery's  hand  its  supplest  tool  supplies  ; 
The  party  felon  whose  unblushing  face 
Looks  from  the  pillory  of  his  bribe  of  place, 
And  coolly  makes  a  merit  of  disgrace, 
Points  to  the  footmarks  of  indignant  scorn, 
Shows  the  deep  scars  of  satire's  tossing  horn ; 
And  passes  to  his  credit  side  the  sum 
Of  all  that  makes  a  scoundrel's  martyrdom ! 


204  ANTl-SLA  VER  Y  POEMS 


"  Bane  of  the  North,  its  canker  and  its  moth  ! 
These  modern  Esaus,  bartering  rights  for  broth ! 
Taxing  our  justice,  with  their  double  claim, 
As  fools  for  pity,  and  as  knaves  for  blame ; 
Who,  urged  by  party,  sect,  or  trade,  within 
The  fell  embrace  of  Slavery's  sphere  of  sin, 
Part  at  the  outset  with  their  moral  sense, 
The  watchful  angel  set  for  Truth's  defence ; 
Confound  all  contrasts,  good  and  ill ;  reverse 
The  poles  of  life,  its  blessing  and  its  curse ; 
And  lose  thenceforth  from  their  perverted  sight 
The  eternal  difference  'twixt  the  wrong  and  right ; 
To  them  the  Law  is  but  the  iron  span 
That  girds  the  ankles  of  imbruted  man ; 
To  them  the  Gospel  has  no  higher  aim 
Than  simple  sanction  of  the  master's  claim, 
Dragged  in  the  slime  of  Slavery's  loathsome  trail, 
Like  Chalier's  Bible  at  his  ass's  tail ! 

"  Such  are  the  men  who,  with  instinctive  dread, 
Whenever  Freedom  lifts  her  drooping  head, 
Make  prophet-tripods  of  their  office-stools, 
And  scare  the  nurseries  and  the  village  schools 
With  dire  presage  of  ruin  grim  and  great, 
A  broken  Union  and  a  foundered  State ! 
Such  are  the  patriots,  self-bound  to  the  stake 
Of  office,  martyrs  for  their  country's  sake : 
Who  fill  themselves  the  hungry  jaws  of  Fate? 
And  by  their  loss  of  manhood  save  the  State. 
In  the  wide  gulf  themselves  like  Curtius  throw, 
And  test  the  virtues  of  cohesive  dough ; 
As  tropic  monkeys,  linking  heads  and  tails, 
Bridge  o'er  some  torrent  of  Ecuador's  vales  ! 


THE  PANORAMA 


205 


"  Such  are  the  men  who  in  your  churches  rave 
To  swearing-point,  at  mention  of  the  slave ! 
When  some  poor  parson,  haply  unawares, 
Stammers  of  freedom  in  his  timid  prayers  ; 
Who,  if  some  foot-sore  negro  through  the  town 
Steals  northward,  volunteer  to  hunt  him  down. 
Or,  if  some  neighbor,  flying  from  disease, 
Courts  the  mild  balsam  of  the  Southern  breeze, 
With  hue  and  cry  pursue  him  on  his  track, 
And  write  Free-soiler  on  the  poor  man's  back. 
Such  are  the  men  who  leave  the  pedler's  cart, 
While  faring  South,  to  learn  the  driver's  art, 
Or,  in  white  neckcloth,  soothe  with  pious  aim 
The  graceful  sorrows  of  some  languid  dame, 
Who,  from  the  wreck  of  her  bereavement,  saves 
The  double  charm  of  widowhood  and  slaves ! 
Pliant  and  apt,  they  lose  no  chance  to  show 
To  what  base  depths  apostasy  can  go ; 
Outdo  the  natives  in  their  readiness 
To  roast  a  negro,  or  to  mob  a  press ; 
Poise  a  tarred  schoolmate  on  the  lyncher's  rail, 
Or  make  a  bonfire  of  their  birthplace  mail ! 

"  So  some  poor  wretch,  whose  lips  no  longer  bear 
The  sacred  burden  of  his  mother's  prayer, 
By  fear  impelled,  or  lust  of  gold  enticed, 
Turns  to  the  Crescent  from  the  Cross  of  Christ, 
And,  over-acting  in  superfluous  zeal, 
Crawls  prostrate  where  the  faithful  only  kneel, 
Out-howls  the  Dervish,  hugs  his  rags  to  court 
The  squalid  Santon's  sanctity  of  dirt ; 
And,  when  beneath  the  city  gateway's  span 
Files  slow  and  long  the  Meccan  caravan, 


206  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


And  through  its  midst,  pursued  by  Islam's  prayers, 
The  prophet's  Word  some  favored  camel  bears, 
The  marked  apostate  has  his  place  assigned 
The  Koran-bearer's  sacred  rump  behind, 
With  brush  and  pitcher  following,  grave  and  mute, 
In  meek  attendance  on  the  holy  brute ! 

"  Men  of  the  North !  beneath  your  very  eyes, 
By  hearth  and  home,  your  real  danger  lies. 
Still  day  by  day  some  hold  of  freedom  falls 
Through  home-bred  traitors  fed  within  its  walls. 
Men  whom  yourselves  with  vote  and  purse  sustain, 
At  posts  of  honor,  influence,  and  gain  ; 
The  right  of  Slavery  to  your  sons  to  teach, 
And  '  South-side '  Gospels  in  your  pulpits  preach, 
Transfix  the  Law  to  ancient  freedom  dear 
On  the  sharp  point  of  her  subverted  spear, 
And  imitate  upon  her  cushion  plump 
The  mad  Missourian  lynching  from  his  stump  ; 
Or,  in  your  name,  upon  the  Senate's  floor 
Yield  up  to  Slavery  all  it  asks,  and  more ; 
And,  ere  your  dull  eyes  open  to  the  cheat, 
Sell  your  old  homestead  underneath  your  feet ! 
While  such  as  these  your  loftiest  outlooks  hold, 
While  truth  and  conscience  with  your  wares  are 
sold, 

While  grave-browed  merchants  band  themselves 
to  aid 

An  annual  man-hunt  for  their  Southern  trade, 
What  moral  power  within  your  grasp  remains 
To  stay  the  mischief  on  Nebraska's  plains  ? 
High  as  the  tides  of  generous  impulse  flow, 
As  far  rolls  back  the  selfish  undertow  ; 


THE  PANORAMA 


207 


And  all  your  brave  resolves,  though  aimed  as  true 
As  the  horse-pistol  Balmawhapple  drew, 
To  Slavery's  bastions  lend  as  slight  a  shock 
As  the  poor  trooper's  shot  to  Stirling  rock ! 

"  Yet,  while  the  need  of  Freedom's  cause  demands 
The  earnest  efforts  of  your  hearts  and  hands, 
Urged  by  all  motives  that  can  prompt  the  heart 
To  prayer  and  toil  and  manhood's  manliest  part ; 
Though  to  the  soul's  deep  tocsin  Nature  joins 
The  warning  whisper  of  her  Orphic  pines, 
The  north- wind's  anger,  and  the  south-wind's  sigh, 
The  midnight  sword-dance  of  the  northern  sky, 
And,  to  the  ear  that  bends  above  the  sod 
Of  the  green  grave-mounds  in  the  Fields  of  God, 
In  low,  deep  murmurs  of  rebuke  or  cheer, 
The  land's  dead  fathers  speak  their  hope  or  fear, 
Yet  let  not  Passion  wrest  from  Reason's  hand 
The  guiding  rein  and  symbol  of  command. 
Blame  not  the  caution  proffering  to  your  zeal 
A  well-meant  drag  upon  its  hurrying  wheel ; 
Nor  chide  the  man  whose  honest  doubt  extends 
To  the  means  only,  not  the  righteous  ends ; 
Nor  fail  to  weigh  the  scruples  and  the  fears 
Of  milder  natures  and  serener  years. 
In  the  long  strife  with  evil  which  began 
With  the  first  lapse  of  new-created  man, 
Wisely  and  well  has  Providence  assigned 
To  each  his  part,  —  some  forward,  some  behind ; 
And  they,  too,  serve  who  temper  and  restrain 
The  o'erwarm  heart  that  sets  on  fire  the  brain. 
True  to  yourselves,  feed  Freedom's  altar-flame 
With  what  you  have ;  let  others  do  the  same. 


208 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Spare  timid  doubters  ;  set  like  flint  your  face 
Against  the  self-sold  knaves  of  gain  and  place  : 
Pity  the  weak  ;  but  with  unsparing  hand 
Cast  out  the  traitors  who  infest  the  land ; 
From  bar,  press,  pulpit,  cast  them  everywhere, 
By  dint  of  fasting,  if  you  fail  by  prayer. 
And  in  their  place  bring  men  of  antique  mould, 
Like  the  grave  fathers  of  your  Age  of  Gold  ; 
Statesmen  like  those  who  sought  the  primal  fount 
Of  righteous  law,  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount ; 
Lawyers  who  prize,  like  Quincy,  (to  our  day 
Still  spared,  Heaven  bless  him !)  honor  more  than 
pay, 

And  Christian  jurists,  starry-pure,  like  Jay ; 
Preachers  like  Woolman,  or  like  them  who  bore 
The  faith  of  Wesley  to  our  Western  shore, 
And  held  no  convert  genuine  till  he  broke 
Alike  his  servants'  and  the  Devil's  yoke ; 
And   priests   like  him  who  Newport's  market 
trod, 

And  o'er  its  slave-ships  shook  the  bolts  of  God ! 
So  shall  your  power,  with  a  wise  prudence  used, 
Strong  but  forbearing,  firm  but  not  abused, 
In  kindly  keeping  with  the  good  of  all, 
The  nobler  maxims  of  the  past  recall, 
Her  natural  home-born  right  to  Freedom  give, 
And  leave  her  foe  his  robber-right,  —  to  live. 
Live,  as  the  snake  does  in  his  noisome  fen  ! 
Live,  as  the  wolf  does  in  his  bone-strewn  den ! 
Live,  clothed  with  cursing  like  a  robe  of  flame, 
The  focal  point  of  million-fingered  shame ! 
Live,  till  the  Southron,  who,  with  all  his  faults, 
Has  manly  instincts,  in  his  pride  revolts, 


THE  PANORAMA 


209 


Dashes  from  off  him,  midst  the  glad  world's  cheers, 
The  hideous  nightmare  of  his  dream  of  years, 
And  lifts,  self-prompted,  with  his  own  right  hand, 
The  vile  encumbrance  from  his  glorious  land ! 

"  So,  wheresoe'er  our  destiny  sends  forth 
Its  widening  circles  to  the  South  or  North, 
Where'er  our  banner  flaunts  beneath  the  stars 
Its  mimic  splendors  and  its  cloudlike  bars, 
There  shall  Free  Labor's  hardy  children  stand 
The  equal  sovereigns  of  a  slaveless  land. 
And  when  at  last  the  hunted  bison  tires, 
And  dies  o'ertaken  by  the  squatter's  fires ; 
And  westward,  wave  on  wave,  the  living  flood 
Breaks  on  the  snow-line  of  majestic  Hood ; 
And  lonely  Shasta  listening  hears  the  tread 
Of  Europe's  fair-haired  children,  Hesper-led ; 
And,  gazing  downward  through  his  hoar-locks,  sees 
The  tawny  Asian  climb  his  giant  knees, 
The  Eastern  sea  shall  hush  his  waves  to  hear 
Pacific's  surf-beat  answer  Freedom's  cheer, 
And  one  long  rolling  fire  of  triumph  run 
Between  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset  gun !  " 


My  task  is  done.    The  Showman  and  his  show, 
Themselves  but  shadows,  into  shadows  go ; 
And,  if  no  song  of  idlesse  I  have  sung, 
Nor  tints  of  beauty  on  the  canvas  flung ; 
If  the  harsh  numbers  grate  on  tender  ears, 
And  the  rough  picture  overwrought  appears , 
With  deeper  coloring,  with  a  sterner  blast, 
Before  my  soul  a  voice  and  vision  passed, 

vol.  in.  14 


210 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Such  as  might  Milton's  jarring  trump  require, 
Or  glooms  of  Dante  fringed  with  lurid  fire. 
Oh,  not  of  choice,  for  themes  of  public  wrong 
I  leave  the  green  and  pleasant  paths  of  song, 
The  mild,  sweet  words  which  soften  and  adorn, 
For  sharp  rebuke  and  bitter  laugh  of  scorn. 
More  dear  to  me  some  song  of  private  worth, 
Some  homely  idyl  of  my  native  North, 
Some  summer  pastoral  of  her  inland  vales, 
Or,  grim  and  weird,  her  winter  fireside  tales 
Haunted  by  ghosts  of  unreturning  sails  \ 
Lost  barks  at  parting  hung  from  stem  to  helm 
With  prayers  of  love  like  dreams  on  Virgil's  elm. 
Nor  private  grief  nor  malice  holds  my  pen  ; 
I  owe  but  kindness  to  my  fellow-men  ; 
And,  South  or  North,  wherever  hearts  of  prayer 
Their  woes  and  weakness  to  our  Father  bear, 
Wherever  fruits  of  Christian  love  are  found 
In  holy  lives,  to  me  is  holy  ground. 
But  the  time  passes.    It  were  vain  to  crave 
A  late  indulgence.    What  I  had  I  gave. 
Forget  the  poet,  but  his  warning  heed, 
And  shame  his  poor  word  with  your  nobler  deed. 
1856. 

ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK, 

WITH  ITS  FRONTISPIECE,  ARY  SCHEFFER'S  "  CHRISTUS 
CONSOLATOR,"  AMERICANIZED  BY  THE  OMISSION  OF 
THE  BLACK  MAN. 

It  is  hardly  to  be  credited,  yet  is  true,  that  in  the  anxiety  of 
the  Northern  merchant  to  conciliate  his  Southern  customer,  a  pub- 
lisher was  found  ready  thus  to  mutilate  Scheffer's  picture,  He 


ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK 


211 


intended  his  edition  for  use  in  the  Southern  States  undoubtedly, 
but  copies  fell  into  the  hands  of  those  who  believed  literally  in 
a  gospel  which  was  to  preach  liberty  to  the  captive. 

O  Ary  Scheffer  !  when  beneath  thine  eye, 
Touched  with  the  light  that  cometh  from  above, 
Grew  the  sweet  picture  of  the  dear  Lord's  love, 

No  dream  hadst  thou  that  Christian  hands  would 
tear 

Therefrom  the  token  of  His  equal  care, 
And  make  thy  symbol  of  His  truth  a  lie ! 

The  poor,  dumb  slave  whose  shackles  fall  away 
In  His  compassionate  gaze,  grubbed  smoothly 
out, 

To  mar  no  more  the  exercise  devout 
Of  sleek  oppression  kneeling  down  to  pray 
Where  the  great  oriel  stains  the  Sabbath  day ! 
Let  whoso  can  before  such  praying-books 

Kneel  on  his  velvet  cushion ;  I,  for  one, 

Would  sooner  bow,  a  Parsee,  to  the  sun, 
Or  tend  a  prayer-wheel  in  Thibetar  brooks, 

Or  beat  a  drum  on  Yedo's  temple-floor. 

No  falser  idol  man  has  bowed  before, 
In  Indian  groves  or  islands  of  the  sea, 

Than  that  which   through   the  quaint-carved 
Gothic  door 
Looks  forth,  —  a  Church  without  humanity  ! 

Patron  of  pride,  and  prejudice,  and  wrong,  — 

The  rich  man's  charm  and  fetich  of  the  strong, 
The  Eternal  Fulness  meted,  clipped,  and  shorn, 
The  seamless  robe  of  equal  mercy  torn, 
The  dear  Christ  hidden  from  His  kindred  flesh, 
And,  in  His  poor  ones,  crucified  afresh ! 
Better  the  simple  Lama  scattering  wide, 


212  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Where  sweeps  the  storm  Alechan's  steppes  along, 
His  paper  horses  for  the  lost  to  ride, 
And  wearying  Buddha  with  his  prayers  to  make 
The  figures  living  for  the  traveller's  sake, 
Than  he  who  hopes  with  cheap  praise  to  beguile 
The  ear  of  God,  dishonoring  man  the  while  ; 
Who  dreams  the  pearl  gate's  hinges,  rusty  grown, 
Are  moved  by  flattery's  oil  of  tongue  alone ; 
That  in  the  scale  Eternal  Justice  bears 
The  generous  deed  weighs  less  than  selfish  prayers, 
And  words  intoned  with  graceful  unction  move 
The  Eternal  Goodness  more  than  lives  of  truth  and 
love. 

Alas,  the  Church  !    The  reverend  head  of  J  ay, 
Enhaloed  with  its  saintly  silvered  hair, 
Adorns  no  more  the  places  of  her  prayer  ; 

And  brave  young  Tyng,  too  early  called  away, 
Troubles  the  Haman  of  her  courts  no  more 
Like  the  just  Hebrew  at  the  Assyrian's  door  ; 
And  her  sweet  ritual,  beautiful  but  dead 
As  the  dry  husk  from  which  the  grain  is  shed, 
And  holy  hymns  from  which  the  life  devout 
Of  saints  and  martyrs  has  wellnigh  gone  out, 

Like  candles  dying  in  exhausted  air, 
For  Sabbath  use  in  measured  grists  are  ground ; 
And,  ever  while  the  spiritual  mill  goes  round, 
Between  the  upper  and  the  nether  stones, 
Unseen,  unheard,  the  wretched  bondman  groans, 

And  urges  his  vain  plea,  prayer-smothered,  anthem- 
drowned  ! 

0  heart  of  mine,  keep  patience !    Looking  forth, 
As  from  the  Mount  of  Vision,  I  behold, 


THE  SUMMONS 


213 


Pure,  just,  and  free,  the  Church  of  Christ  on  earth ; 

The  martyr's  dream,  the  golden  age  foretold ! 
And  found,  at  last,  the  mystic  Graal  I  see, 

Brimmed  with  His  blessing,  pass  from  lip  to  lip 

In  sacred  pledge  of  human  fellowship ; 

And  over  all  the  songs  of  angels  hear  ; 

Songs  of  the  love  that  casteth  out  all  fear ; 

Songs  of  the  Gospel  of  Humanity ! 

Lo  !  in  the  midst,  with  the  same  look  He  wore, 

Healing  and  blessing  on  Genesaret's  shore, 

Folding  together,  with  the  all-tender  might 
Of  His  great  love,  the  dark  hands  and  the  white, 

Stands  the  Consoler,  soothing  every  pain, 
Making  all  burdens  light,  and  breaking  every 
chain. 

1859. 

THE  SUMMONS. 

My  ear  is  full  of  summer  sounds, 
Of  summer  sights  my  languid  eye  ; 

Beyond  the  dusty  village  bounds 

I  loiter  in  my  daily  rounds, 

And  in  the  noon-time  shadows  lie. 

I  hear  the  wild  bee  wind  his  horn, 

The  bird  swings  on  the  ripened  wheat, 

The  long  green  lances  of  the  corn 

Are  tilting  in  the  winds  of  morn, 
The  locust  shrills  his  song  of  heat. 

Another  sound  my  spirit  hears, 

A  deeper  sound  that  drowns  them  all ; 


214  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


A  voice  of  pleading  choked  with  tears, 
The  call  of  human  hopes  and  fears, 
The  Macedonian  cry  to  Paul ! 

The  storm-bell  rings,  the  trumpet  blows  ; 

I  know  the  word  and  countersign  ; 
Wherever  Freedom's  vanguard  goes, 
Where  stand  or  fall  her  friends  or  foes, 

I  know  the  place  that  should  be  mine. 

Shamed  be  the  hands  that  idly  fold, 

And  lips  that  woo  the  reed's  accord, 
When  laggard  Time  the  hour  has  tolled 
For  true  with  false  and  new  with  old 
To  fight  the  battles  of  the  Lord ! 

O  brothers  !  blest  by  partial  Fate 

With  power  to  match  the  will  and  deed, 
To  him  your  summons  comes  too  late 
Who  sinks  beneath  his  armor's  weight, 
And  has  no  answer  but  God-speed  ! 

1860. 


TO  WILLIAM  H.  SEWARD. 

On  the  12th  of  January,  1861,  Mr.  Seward  delivered  in  the 
Senate  chamber  a  speech  on  The  State  of  the  Union,  in  which  he 
urged  the  paramount  duty  of  preserving  the  Union,  and  went  as 
far  as  it  was  possible  to  go,  without  surrender  of  principles,  in 
concessions  to  the  Southern  party,  concluding  his  argument  with 
these  words  :  "  Having  submitted  my  own  opinions  on  this  great 
crisis,  it  remains  only  to  say,  that  I  shall  cheerfully  lend  to  the 
government  my  best  support  in  whatever  prudent  yet  energetic 
efforts  it  shall  make  to  preserve  the  public  peace,  and  to  main- 


TO  WILLIAM  H.  SEWARD 


215 


tain  and  preserve  the  Union ;  advising1,  only,  that  it  practise,  as 
far  as  possible,  the  utmost  moderation,  forbearance,  and  concilia- 
tion. .  .  .  This  Union  has  not  yet  accomplished  what  good  for 
mankind  was  manifestly  designed  by  Him  who  appoints  the  sea- 
sons and  prescribes  the  duties  of  states  and  empires.  No ;  if  it 
were  cast  down  by  faction  to-day,  it  would  rise  again  and  re- 
appear in  all  its  majestic  proportions  to-morrow.  It  is  the  only 
government  that  can  stand  here.  Woe !  woe  !  to  the  man  that 
madly  lifts  his  hand  against  it.  It  shall  continue  and  endure ; 
and  men,  in  after  times,  shall  declare  that  this  generation,  which 
saved  the  Union  from  such  sudden  and  unlooked-for  dangers,  sur- 
passed in  magnanimity  even  that  one  which  laid  its  foundations 
in  the  eternal  principles  of  liberty,  justice,  and  humanity." 

Statesman,  I  thank  thee !  and,  if  yet  dissent 
Mingles,  reluctant,  with  my  large  content, 
I  cannot  censure  what  was  nobly  meant. 
But,  while  constrained  to  hold  even  Union  less 
Than  Liberty  and  Truth  and  Eighteousness, 
I  thank  thee  in  the  sweet  and  holy  name 
Of  peace,  for  wise  calm  words  that  put  to  shame 
Passion  and  party.    Courage  may  be  shown 
Not  in  defiance  of  the  wrong  alone  ; 
He  may  be  bravest  who,  unweaponed,  bears 
The  olive  branch,  and,  strong  in  justice,  spares 
The  rash  wrong-doer,  giving  widest  scope 
To  Christian  charity  and  generous  hope. 
If,  without  damage  to  the  sacred  cause 
Of  Freedom  and  the  safeguard  of  its  laws  — ■ 
If,  without  yielding  that  for  which  alone 
We  prize  the  Union,  thou  canst  save  it  now 
From  a  baptism  of  blood,  upon  thy  brow 
A  wreath  whose  flowers  no  earthly  soil  have  known. 
Woven  of  the  beatitudes,  shall  rest, 
And  the  peacemaker  be  forever  blest ! 
1861. 


216  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


IN  WAR  TIME. 

TO  SAMUEL  E.  SEWALL  AND  HARRIET  W.  SEW  ALL, 

OF  MELROSE. 

These  lines  to  my  old  friends  stood  as  dedication  in  the  volume 
which  contained  a  collection  of  pieces  under  the  general  title  of 
In  War  Time.  The  group  belonging  distinctly  under  that  title  I 
have  retained  here  ;  the  other  pieces  in  the  volume  are  distributed 
among  the  appropriate  divisions. 

Olor  Iscanus  queries :  "  Why  should  we 
Vex  at  the  land's  ridiculous  miserie  ?  " 
So  on  his  Usk  banks,  in  the  blood-red  dawn 
Of  England's  civil  strife,  did  careless  Vaughan 
Bemock  his  times.    O  friends  of  many  years ! 
Though  faith  and  trust  are  stronger  than  our 
fears, 

And  the  signs  promise  peace  with  liberty, 
Not  thus  we  trifle  with  our  country's  tears 
And  sweat  of  agony.    The  future's  gain 
Is  certain  as  God's  truth  ;  but,  meanwhile,  pain 
Is  bitter  and  tears  are  salt :  our  voices  take 
A  sober  tone ;  our  very  household  songs 
Are  heavy  with  a  nation's  griefs  and  wrongs  ; 
And  innocent  mirth  is  chastened  for  the  sake 
Of  the  brave  hearts  that  nevermore  shall  beat, 
The  eyes  that  smile  no  more,  the  unreturning 
feet ! 

1863. 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE. 

We  see  not,  know  not ;  all  our  way 
Is  night,  —  with  Thee  alone  is  day  : 
From  out  the  torrent's  troubled  drift, 
Above  the  storm  our  prayers  we  lift, 
Thy  will  be  done ! 

The  flesh  may  fail,  the  heart  may  faint, 
But  who  are  we  to  make  complaint, 
Or  dare  to  plead,  in  times  like  these, 
The  weakness  of  our  love  of  ease  ? 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

We  take  with  solemn  thankfulness 
Our  burden  up,  nor  ask  it  less, 
And  count  it  joy  that  even  we 
May  suffer,  serve,  or  wait  for  Thee, 
Whose  will  be  done  ! 

Though  dim  as  yet  in  tint  and  line, 
We  trace  Thy  picture's  wise  design, 
And  thank  Thee  that  our  age  supplies 
Its  dark  relief  of  sacrifice. 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

And  if,  in  our  unworthiness, 
Thy  sacrificial  wine  we  press  ; 
If  from  Thy  ordeal's  heated  bars 
Our  feet  are  seamed  with  crimson  scars, 
Thy  will  be  done ! 


218  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


If,  for  the  age  to  come,  this  hour 
Of  trial  hath  vicarious  power, 
And,  blest  by  Thee,  our  present  pain, 
Be  Liberty's  eternal  gain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

Strike,  Thou  the  Master,  we  Thy  keys, 
The  anthem  of  the  destinies  ! 
The  minor  of  Thy  loftier  strain, 
Our  hearts  shall  breathe  the  old  refrain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

1861. 

A  WORD  FOR  THE  HOUR. 

The  firmament  breaks  up.    In  black  eclipse 

Light  after  light  goes  out.    One  evil  star, 

Luridly  glaring  through  the  smoke  of  war, 

As  in  the  dream  of  the  Apocalypse, 

Drags  others  down.    Let  us  not  weakly  weep 

Nor  rashly  threaten.    Give  us  grace  to  keep 

Our  faith  and  patience  ;  wherefore  should  we  leap 

On  one  hand  into  fratricidal  fight, 

Or,  on  the  other,  yield  eternal  right, 

Frame  lies  of  law,  and  good  and  ill  confound  ? 

What  fear  we  ?    Safe  on  freedom's  vantage-ground 

Our  feet  are  planted  :  let  us  there  remain 

In  unrevengeful  calm,  no  means  untried 

Which  truth  can  sanction,  no  just  claim  denied, 

The  sad  spectators  of  a  suicide ! 

They  break  the  links  of  Union  :  shall  we  light 

The  fires  of  hell  to  weld  anew  the  chain 

On  that  red  anvil  where  each  blow  is  pain  ? 


"EIN  FESTE  BURG  1ST  UNSER  GOTT  "  219 


Draw  we  not  even  now  a  freer  breath, 
As  from  our  shoulders  falls  a  load  of  death 
Loathsome  as  that  the  Tuscan's  victim  bore 
When  keen  with  life  to  a  dead  horror  bound  ? 
Why  take  we  up  the  accursed  thing  again  ? 
Pity,  forgive,  but  urge  them  back  no  more 
Who,  drunk  with  passion,  flaunt  disunion's  rag 
With  its  vile  reptile-blazon.    Let  us  press 
The  golden  cluster  on  our  brave  old  flag 
In  closer  union,  and,  if  numbering  less, 
Brighter  shall  shine  the  stars  which  still  remain. 

16th  First  mo.,  1861. 

"EIN  FESTE  BURG  1ST  UNSER  GOTT." 

luther's  hymn. 

We  wait  beneath  the  furnace-blast 

The  pangs  of  transformation  ; 
Not  painlessly  doth  God  recast 
And  mould  anew  the  nation. 
Hot  burns  the  fire 
Where  wrongs  expire ; 
Nor  spares  the  hand 
That  from  the  land 
Uproots  the  ancient  evil. 

The  hand-breadth  cloud  the  sages  feared 

Its  bloody  rain  is  dropping  ; 
The  poison  plant  the  fathers  spared 
All  else  is  overtopping. 
East,  West,  South,  North, 
It  curses  the  earth  ; 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


All  justice  dies, 
And  fraud  and  lies 
Live  only  in  its  shadow. 

What  gives  the  wheat-field  blades  of  steel  ? 

What  points  the  rebel  cannon  ? 
What  sets  the  roaring  rabble's  heel 
On  the  old  star-spangled  pennon  ? 
What  breaks  the  oath 
Of  the  men  o'  the  South  ? 
What  whets  the  knife 
For  the  Union's  life  ?  — 
Hark  to  the  answer  :  Slavery  ! 

Then  waste  no  blows  on  lesser  foes 

In  strife  unworthy  freemen. 
God  lifts  to-day  the  veil,  and  shows 
The  features  of  the  demon ! 
O  North  and  South, 
Its  victims  both, 
Can  ye  not  cry, 
"  Let  slavery  die !  " 
And  union  find  in  freedom  ? 

What  though  the  cast-out  spirit  tear 

The  nation  in  his  going  ? 
We  who  have  shared  the  guilt  must  share 
The  pang  of  his  o'erthrowing ! 
Whate'er  the  loss, 
Whate'er  the  cross, 
Shall  they  complain 
Of  present  pain 
Who  trust  in  God's  hereafter  ? 


"EIN  FESTE  BURG  1ST  UNSER  GOTT"  221 

For  who  that  leans  on  His  right  arm 

Was  ever  yet  forsaken  ? 
What  righteous  cause  can  suffer  harm 
If  He  its  part  has  taken  ? 
Though  wild  and  loud, 
And  dark  the  cloud, 
Behind  its  folds 
His  hand  upholds 
The  calm  sky  of  to-morrow  ! 

Above  the  maddening  cry  for  blood, 

Above  the  wild  war-drumming, 
Let  Freedom's  voice  be  heard,  with  good 
The  evil  overcoming. 
Give  prayer  and  purse 
To  stay  the  Curse 
Whose  wrong  we  share, 
Whose  shame  we  bear, 
Whose  end  shall  gladden  Heaven  ! 

In  vain  the  bells  of  war  shall  ring 

Of  triumphs  and  revenges, 
While  still  is  spared  the  evil  thing 
That  severs  and  estranges. 
But  blest  the  ear 
That  yet  shall  hear 
The  jubilant  bell 
That  rings  the  knell 
Of  Slavery  forever ! 

Then  let  the  selfish  lip  be  dumb, 
And  hushed  the  breath  of  sighing  ; 

Before  the  joy  of  peace  must  come 
The  pains  of  purifying. 


222 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


God  give  us  grace 
Each  in  his  place 
To  bear  his  lot, 
And,  murmuring  not, 
Endure  and  wait  and  labor  ! 

1861. 

TO  JOHN  C.  FREMONT. 

On  the  31st  of  August,  1861,  General  Fremont,  then  in  charge 
of  the  Western  Department,  issued  a  proclamation  which  con- 
tained a  clause,  famous  as  the  first  announcement  of  emancipa- 
tion :  ' '  The  property, ' '  it  declared,  ' '  real  and  personal,  of  all 
persons  in  the  State  of  Missouri,  who  shall  take  up  arms  against 
the  United  States,  or  who  shall  be  directly  proven  to  have  taken 
active  part  with  their  enemies  in  the  field,  is  declared  to  be  con- 
fiscated to  the  public  use  ;  and  their  slaves,  if  any  they  have,  are 
hereby  declared  free  men."  Mr.  Lincoln  regarded  the  proclama- 
tion as  premature  and  countermanded  it,  after  vainly  endeavoring 
to  persuade  Fremont  of  his  own  motion  to  revoke  it. 

Thy  error,  Fremont,  simply  was  to  act 

A  brave  man's  part,  without  the  statesman's  tact, 

And,  taking  counsel  but  of  common  sense, 

To  strike  at  cause  as  well  as  consequence. 

Oh,  never  yet  since  Roland  wound  his  horn 

At  Roncesvalles,  has  a  blast  been  blown 

Far-heard,  wide-echoed,  startling  as  thine  own, 

Heard  from  the  van  of  freedom's  hope  forlorn  ! 

It  had  been  safer,  doubtless,  for  the  time, 

To  flatter  treason,  and  avoid  offence 

To  that  Dark  Power  whose  underlying  crime 

Heaves  upward  its  perpetual  turbulence. 

But  if  thine  be  the  fate  of  all  who  break 

The  ground  for  truth's  seed,  or  forerun  their  years 

Till  lost  in  distance,  or  with  stout  hearts  make 


THE  WATCHERS 


223 


A  lane  for  freedom  through  the  level  spears, 
Still  take  thou  courage  !    God  has  spoken  through 
thee, 

Irrevocable,  the  mighty  words,  Be  free  ! 
The  land  shakes  with  them,  and  the  slave's  dull  ear 
Turns  from  the  rice-swamp  stealthily  to  hear. 
Who  would  recall  them  now  must  first  arrest 
The  winds  that  blow  down  from  the  free  North- 
west, 

Euffling  the  Gulf  ;  or  like  a  scroll  roll  back 
The  Mississippi  to  its  upper  springs. 
Such  words  fulfil  their  prophecy,  and  lack 
But  the  full  time  to  harden  into  things. 
1861. 


THE  WATCHERS. 

Beside  a  stricken  field  I  stood ; 

On  the  torn  turf,  on  grass  and  wood, 

Hung  heavily  the  dew  of  blood. 

Still  in  their  fresh  mounds  lay  the  slain, 
But  all  the  air  was  quick  with  pain 
And  gusty  sighs  and  tearful  rain. 

Two  angels,  each  with  drooping  head 
And  folded  wings  and  noiseless  tread, 
Watched  by  that  valley  of  the  dead. 

The  one,  with  forehead  saintly  bland 
And  lips  of  blessing,  not  command, 
Leaned,  weeping,  on  her  olive  wand. 


224 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


The  other's  brows  were  scarred  and  knit, 
His  restless  eyes  were  watch-fires  lit, 
His  hands  for  battle-gauntlets  fit. 

"  How  long  !  "  —  I  knew  the  voice  of  Peace, — 
"  Is  there  no  respite?  no  release? 
When  shall  the  hopeless  quarrel  cease  ? 

"  O  Lord,  how  long !    One  human  soul 
Is  more  than  any  parchment  scroll, 
Or  any  flag  thy  winds  unroll. 

"  "What  price  was  Ellsworth's,  young  and  brave  ? 
How  weigh  the  gift  that  Lyon  gave, 
Or  count  the  cost  of  Winthrop's  grave  ? 

"  0  brother !  if  thine  eye  can  see, 
Tell  how  and  when  the  end  shall  be, 
What  hope  remains  for  thee  and  me." 

Then  Freedom  sternly  said :  "  I  shun 
No  strife  nor  pang  beneath  the  sun, 
When  human  rights  are  staked  and  won. 

"  I  knelt  with  Ziska's  hunted  flock, 
I  watched  in  Toussaint's  cell  of  rock, 
I  walked  with  Sidney  to  the  block. 

"  The  moor  of  Marston  felt  my  tread, 
Through  Jersey  snows  the  march  I  led, 
My  voice  Magenta's  charges  sped. 


THE  WATCHERS 


225 


"  But  now,  through  weary  day  and  night, 
I  watch  a  vague  and  aimless  fight 
For  leave  to  strike  one  blow  aright. 

"  On  either  side  my  foe  they  own : 
One  guards  through  love  his  ghastly  throne, 
And  one  through  fear  to  reverence  grown. 

"  Why  wait  we  longer,  mocked,  betrayed, 
By  open  foes,  or  those  afraid 
To  speed  thy  coming  through  my  aid  ? 

"  Why  watch  to  see  who  win  or  fall  ? 
I  shake  the  dust  against  them  all, 
I  leave  them  to  their  senseless  brawl." 

"Nay,"  Peace  implored  :  " yet  longer  wait ; 
The  doom  is  near,  the  stake  is  great : 
God  knoweth  if  it  be  too  late. 

"  Still  wait  and  watch ;  the  way  prepare 
Where  I  with  folded  wings  of  prayer 
May  follow,  weaponless  and  bare." 

"  Too  late  !  "  the  stern,  sad  voice  replied, 
"  Too  late  !  "  its  mournful  echo  sighed, 
In  low  lament  the  answer  died. 

A  rustling  as  of  wings  in  flight, 

An  upward  gleam  of  lessening  white, 

So  passed  the  vision,  sound  and  sight. 

vol.  in.  15 


226  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


But  round  me,  like  a  silver  bell 
Kung  down  the  listening  sky  to  tell 
Of  holy  help,  a  sweet  voice  fell. 

"  Still  hope  and  trust,"  it  sang ;  "  the  rod 
Must  fall,  the  wine-press  must  be  trod, 
But  all  is  possible  with  God !  " 

1862. 

TO  ENGLISHMEN. 

Written  when,  in  the  stress  of  our  terrible  war,  the  English 
ruling  class,  with  few  exceptions,  were  either  coldly  indifferent  or 
hostile  to  the  party  of  freedom.  Their  attitude  was  illustrated 
by  caricatures  of  America,  among  which  was  one  of  a  slaveholder 
and  cowhide,  with  the  motto,  "  Haven't  I  a  right  to  wallop  my 
nigger  ?  " 

You  flung  your  taunt  across  the  wave ; 

We  bore  it  as  became  us, 
Well  knowing  that  the  fettered  slave 
Left  friendly  lips  no  option  save 

To  pity  or  to  blame  us. 

You  scoffed  our  plea.    "  Mere  lack  of  will, 

Not  lack  of  power,"  you  told  us : 
We  showed  our  free-state  records  ;  still 
You  mocked,  confounding  good  and  ill, 
Slave-haters  and  slaveholders 

We  struck  at  Slavery ;  to  the  verge 

Of  power  and  means  we  checked  it ; 
Lo !  —  presto,  change !  its  claims  you  urge, 
Send  greetings  to  it  o'er  the  surge, 
And  comfort  and  protect  it. 


TO  ENGLISHMEN 


227 


But  yesterday  you  scarce  could  shake, 

In  slave-abhorring  rigor, 
Our  Northern  palms  for  conscience'  sake : 
To-day  you  clasp  the  hands  that  ache 

With  "  walloping  the  nigger  !  " 

O  Englishmen  !  —  in  hope  and  creed, 
In  blood  and  tongue  our  brothers  ! 

"We  too  are  heirs  of  Runny mede  ; 

And  Shakespeare's  fame  and  Cromwell's  deed 
Are  not  alone  our  mother's. 

"  Thicker  than  water,"  in  one  rill 

Through  centuries  of  story 
Our  Saxon  blood  has  flowed,  and  still 
We  share  with  you  its  good  and  ill, 

The  shadow  and  the  glory. 

Joint  heirs  and  kinfolk,  leagues  of  wave 

Nor  length  of  years  can  part  us  : 
Your  right  is  ours  to  shrine  and  grave, 
The  common  freehold  of  the  brave, 
The  gift  of  saints  and  martyrs. 

Our  very  sins  and  follies  teach 

Our  kindred  frail  and  human  : 
We  carp  at  faults  with  bitter  speech, 
The  while,  for  one  unshared  by  each, 

We  have  a  score  in  common. 

We  bowed  the  heart,  if  not  the  knee, 

To  England's  Queen,  God  bless  her  ! 
We  praised  you  when  your  slaves  went  free : 


228 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


We  seek  to  unchain  ours.    Will  ye 
Join  hands  with  the  oppressor  ? 

And  is  it  Christian  England  cheers 

The  bruiser,  not  the  bruised  ? 
And  must  she  run,  despite  the  tears 
And  prayers  of  eighteen  hundred  years, 
Amuck  in  Slavery's  crusade  ? 

Oh,  black  disgrace  !    Oh,  shame  and  loss 
Too  deep  for  tongue  to  phrase  on ! 

Tear  from  your  flag  its  holy  cross, 

And  in  your  van  of  battle  toss 
The  pirate's  skull-bone  blazon ! 

1862. 


MITHRIDATES  AT  CHIOS. 

It  is  recorded  that  the  Chians,  when  subjugated  by  Mithridates 
of  Cappadocia,  were  delivered  up  to  their  own  slaves,  to  be  car- 
ried away  captive  to  Colchis.  Athenseus  considers  this  a  just  pun- 
ishment for  their  wickedness  in  first  introducing-  the  slave-trade 
into  Greece.  From  this  ancient  villany  of  the  Chians  the  proverb 
arose,  "  The  Chian  hath  bought  himself  a  master." 

Know'st  thou,  O  slave-cursed  land ! 
How,  when  the  Chian's  cup  of  guilt 
Was  full  to  overflow,  there  came 
God's  justice  in  the  sword  of  flame 
That,  red  with  slaughter  to  its  hilt, 
Blazed  in  the  Cappadocian  victor's  hand  ? 

The  heavens  are  still  and  far ; 
But,  not  unheard  of  awful  Jove. 


MITHRIDA TES  AT  CHIOS 


229 


The  sighing  of  the  island  slave 
Was  answered,  when  the  iEgean  wave 
The  keels  of  Mithridates  clove, 
And  the  vines  shrivelled  in  the  breath  of  war. 

"  Eobbers  of  Chios !  hark," 
The  victor  cried,  "  to  Heaven's  decree  ! 
Pluck  your  last  cluster  from  the  vine, 
Drain  your  last  cup  of  Chian  wine ; 
Slaves  of  your  slaves,  your  doom  shall  be, 
In  Colchian  mines  by  Phasis  rolling  dark." 

Then  rose  the  long  lament 
From  the  hoar  sea-god's  dusky  caves : 
The  priestess  rent  her  hair  and  cried, 
"  Woe !  woe  !    The  gods  are  sleepless-eyed !  " 
And,  chained  and  scourged,  the  slaves  of  slaves, 
The  lords  of  Chios  into  exile  went. 

"  The  gods  at  last  pay  well," 

So  Hellas  sang  her  taunting  song, 
"  The  fisher  in  his  net  is  caught, 
The  Chian  hath  his  master  bought ; " 

And  isle  from  isle,  with  laughter  long, 
Took  up  and  sped  the  mocking  parable. 

Once  more  the  slow,  dumb  years 
Bring  their  avenging  cycle  round, 
And,  more  than  Hellas  taught  of  old, 
Our  wiser  lesson  shall  be  told, 
Of  slaves  uprising,  freedom-crowned, 
To  break,  not  wield,  the  scourge  wet  with  their 
blood  and  tears. 

1863. 


230 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


AT  PORT  ROYAL. 

In  November,  1861,  a  Union  force  under  Commodore  Dupont 
and  General  Sberman  captured  Port  Royal,  and  from  this  point  as 
a  basis  of  operations,  the  neighboring  islands  between  Charleston 
and  Savannah  were  taken  possession  of.  The  early  occupation  of 
this  district,  where  the  negro  population  was  greatly  in  excess  of 
the  white,  gave  an  opportunity  which  was  at  once  seized  upon, 
of  practically  emancipating  the  slaves  and  of  beginning  that  work 
of  civilization  which  was  accepted  as  the  grave  responsibility  of 
those  who  had  labored  for  freedom, 

The  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 

The  ship-lights  on  the  sea ; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting  sand 

Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing ; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide, 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song : 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong  ; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please  ; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 

Has  filled  the  west  with  light, 
Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre, 

Are  blazing  through  the  night. 


AT  PORT  ROYAL 


The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 
The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast ; 

From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to  gate 
The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 
Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles : 

Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 
That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 
They  weave  in  simple  lays 

The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 
The  hope  of  better  days,  — 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 
The  joy  of  uncaged  birds  : 

Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 
Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


SONG  OF  THE  NEGKO  BOATMEN. 

Oh,  praise  an'  tanks  !    De  Lord  he  come 

To  set  de  people  free  ; 
An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 
De  Lord  dat  heap  de  Red  Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den ; 
He  say  de  word  :  we  las'  night  slaves ; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  freemen. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
Oh  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  h< 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 

Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone ; 

He  leaf  de  land  behind  : 
De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on, 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn ; 
Oh  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  pray  de  Lord :  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free ; 
De  norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea ; 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell  ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream ; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
De  eagle  when  he  scream. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
Oh  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  know  de  promise  nebber  faiL 

An'  nebber  lie  de  word ; 
So  like  de  'postles  in  de  jail, 

We  waited  for  de  Lord  : 
An'  now  he  open  ebery  door, 

An'  trow  away  de  key ; 
He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before, 

We  lub  him  better  free. 


AT  PORT  ROYAL 


233 


De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

He  '11  gib  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
Oh  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 

De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers  ; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny ; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song ;  each  swarthy  face, 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still : 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill ; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 

Oppressor  with  oppressed ; 
And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 

We  march  to  Fate  abreast. 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts  !  your  chant  shall  be 
Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom, 

The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 
Or  death-rune  of  our  doom ! 

1862. 


234  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


ASTRiEA  AT  THE  CAPITOL. 

ABOLITION  OF   SLAVERY  IN"   THE    DISTRICT  OF  COLUM- 
BIA, 1862. 

When  first  I  saw  our  banner  wave 

Above  the  nation's  council-hall, 

I  heard  beneath  its  marble  wall 
The  clanking  fetters  of  the  slave ! 

In  the  foul  market-place  I  stood, 
And  saw  the  Christian  mother  sold, 
And  childhood  with  its  locks  of  gold, 

Blue-eyed  and  fair  with  Saxon  blood. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  I  held  my  breath, 

And,  smothering  down  the  wrath  and  shame 
That  set  my  Northern  blood  aflame, 

Stood  silent,  —  where  to  speak  was  death. 

Beside  me  gloomed  the  prison-cell 
Where  wasted  one  in  slow  decline 
For  uttering  simple  words  of  mine, 

And  loving  freedom  all  too  well. 

The  flag  that  floated  from  the  dome 
Flapped  menace  in  the  morning  air ; 
I  stood  a  perilled  stranger  where 

The  human  broker  made  his  home. 

For  crime  was  virtue  :  Gown  and  Sword 
And  Law  their  threefold  sanction  gave, 
And  to  the  quarry  of  the  slave 

Went  hawking  with  our  symbol-bird. 


ASTRJEA  AT  THE  CAPITOL  235 


On  the  oppressor's  side  was  power  ; 

And  yet  I  knew  that  every  wrong, 

However  old,  however  strong, 
But  waited  God's  avenging  hour. 

I  knew  that  truth  would  crush  the  lie,  — 
Somehow,  some  time,  the  end  would  be ; 
Yet  scarcely  dared  I  hope  to  see 

The  triumph  with  my  mortal  eye. 

But  now  I  see  it !    In  the  sun 

A  free  flag  floats  from  yonder  dome, 
And  at  the  nation's  hearth  and  home 

The  justice  long  delayed  is  done. 

Not  as  we  hoped,  in  calm  of  prayer, 
The  message  of  deliverance  comes, 
But  heralded  by  roll  of  drums 

On  waves  of  battle-troubled  air  ! 

Midst  sounds  that  madden  and  appall, 

The  song  that  Bethlehem's  shepherds  knew ! 
The  harp  of  David  melting  through 

The  demon-agonies  of  Saul ! 

Not  as  we  hoped  ;  but  what  are  we  ? 
Above  our  broken  dreams  and  plans 
God  lays,  with  wiser  hand  than  man's, 

The  corner-stones  of  liberty. 

I  cavil  not  with  Him  :  the  voice 
That  freedom's  blessed  gospel  tells 
Is  sweet  to  me  as  silver  bells, 

Rejoicing !  yea,  I  will  rejoice ! 


236  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Dear  friends  still  toiling  in  the  sun  ; 
Ye  dearer  ones  who,  gone  before, 
Are  watching  from  the  eternal  shore 

The  slow  work  by  your  hands  begun, 

Rejoice  with  me !    The  chastening  rod 
Blossoms  with  love  ;  the  furnace  heat 
Grows  cool  beneath  His  blessed  feet 

Whose  form  is  as  the  Son  of  God ! 

Rejoice  !    Our  Marah's  bitter  springs 
Are  sweetened  ;  on  our  ground  of  grief 
Rise  day  by  day  in  strong  relief 

The  prophecies  of  better  things. 

Rejoice  in  hope !    The  day  and  night 
Are  one  with  God,  and  one  with  them 
Who  see  by  faith  the  cloudy  hem 

Of  Judgment  fringed  with  Mercy's  light ! 
1862. 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF  1862. 

The  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly, 

The  charging  trumpets  blow  ; 
Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky, 

No  earthquake  strives  below. 

And,  calm  and  patient,  Nature  keeps 

Her  ancient  promise  well, 
Though  o'er  her  bloom  and  greenness  sweeps 

The  battle's  breath  of  hell. 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF  1862 

And  still  she  walks  in  golden  hours 
Through  harvest-happy  farms, 

And  still  she  wears  her  fruits  and  flowers 
Like  jewels  on  her  arms. 

What  mean  the  gladness  of  the  plain, 

This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 
The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard  of  grain 

And  yellow  locks  of  corn  ? 

Ah  !  eyes  may  well  be  full  of  tears, 
And  hearts  with  hate  are  hot ; 

But  even-paced  come  round  the  years, 
And  Nature  changes  not. 

She  meets  with  smiles  our  bitter  grief, 
With  songs  our  groans  of  pain  ; 

She  mocks  with  tint  of  flower  and  leaf 
The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 

Still,  in  the  cannon's  pause,  we  hear 
Her  sweet  thanksgiving-psalm ; 

Too  near  to  God  for  doubt  or  fear, 
She  shares  the  eternal  calm. 

She  knows  the  seed  lies  safe  below 
The  fires  that  blast  and  burn  ; 

For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow 
She  waits  the  rich  return. 

She  sees  with  clearer  eye  than  ours 
The  good  of  suffering  born,  — 

The  hearts  that  blossom  like  her  flowers, 
And  ripen  like  her  corn. 


238 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Oh,  give  to  us,  in  times  like  these, 

The  vision  of  her  eyes  ; 
And  make  her  fields  and  fruited  trees 

Our  golden  prophecies ! 

Oh,  give  to  us  her  finer  ear  ! 

Above  this  stormy  din, 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 

Ring  peace  and  freedom  in. 

1862. 

HYMN, 

SUNG  AT    CHRISTMAS    BY  THE    SCHOLARS  OF   ST.  HEL- 
ENA'S ISLAND,  S.  C. 

Oh,  none  in  all  the  world  before 

Were  ever  glad  as  we ! 
We  're  free  on  Carolina's  shore, 

We  're  all  at  home  and  free. 

Thou  Friend  and  Helper  of  the  poor, 

Who  suffered  for  our  sake, 
To  open  every  prison  door, 

And  every  yoke  to  break  ! 

Bend  low  Thy  pitying  face  and  mild, 

And  help  us  sing  and  pray ; 
The  hand  that  blessed  the  little  child, 

Upon  our  foreheads  lay. 

We  hear  no  more  the  driver's  horn, 
No  more  the  whip  we  fear, 


THE  PROCLAMATION  239 

This  holy  day  that  saw  Thee  born 
Was  never  half  so  dear. 

The  very  oaks  are  greener  clad, 

The  waters  brighter  smile  ; 
Oh,  never  shone  a  day  so  glad 

On  sweet  St.  Helen's  Isle. 

We  praise  Thee  in  our  songs  to-day, 

To  Thee  in  prayer  we  call, 
Make  swift  the  feet  and  straight  the  way 

Of  freedom  unto  all. 

Come  once  again,  O  blessed  Lord ! 

Come  walking  on  the  sea  ! 
And  let  the  mainlands  hear  the  word 

That  sets  the  islands  free  ! 

1863. 

THE  PROCLAMATION. 

President  Lincoln's  proclamation  of  emancipation  was  issued 
January  1,  1863. 

Saint  Patrick,  slave  to  Milcho  of  the  herds 
Of  Ballymena,  wakened  with  these  words  : 

"  Arise,  and  flee 
Out  from  the  land  of  bondage,  and  be  free  !  " 

Glad  as  a  soul  in  pain,  who  hears  from  heaven 
The  angels  singing  of  his  sins  forgiven, 

And,  wondering,  sees 
His  prison  opening  to  their  golden  keys, 


240  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


He  rose  a  man  who  laid  him  down  a  slave, 
Shook  from  his  locks  the  ashes  of  the  grave, 

And  outward  trod 
Into  the  glorious  liberty  of  God. 

He  cast  the  symbols  of  his  shame  away ; 
And,  passing  where  the  sleeping  Milcho  lay, 

Though  back  and  limb 
Smarted  with  wrong,  he  prayed,  "  God  pardon 
him!" 

So  went  he  forth ;  but  in  God's  time  he  came 
To  light  on  Uilline's  hills  a  holy  flame ; 

And,  dying,  gave 
The  land  a  saint  that  lost  him  as  a  slave. 

O  dark,  sad  millions,  patiently  and  dumb 
Waiting  for  God,  your  hour  at  last  has  come, 

And  freedom's  song 
Breaks  the  long  silence  of  your  night  of  wrong  ! 

Arise  and  flee !  shake  off  the  vile  restraint 
Of  ages ;  but,  like  Ballymena's  saint, 

The  oppressor  spare, 
Heap  only  on  his  head  the  coals  of  prayer. 

Go  forth,  like  him  !  like  him  return  again, 
To  bless  the  land  whereon  in  bitter  pain 

Ye  toiled  at  first, 
And  heal  with  freedom  what  your  slavery  cursed. 
1863. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM  241 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

Read  before  the  Alumni  of  the  Friends'  Yearly  Meeting  School, 
at  the  Annual  Meeting  at  Newport,  R.  I.,  15th  6th  mo.,  1863. 

Once  more,  dear  friends,  you  meet  beneath 

A  clouded  sky : 
Not  yet  the  sword  has  found  its  sheath, 
And  on  the  sweet  spring  airs  the  breath 

Of  war  floats  by. 

Yet  trouble  springs  not  from  the  ground, 

Nor  pain  from  chance; 
The  Eternal  order  circles  round, 
And  wave  and  storm  find  mete  and  bound 

In  Providence. 

Full  long  our  feet  the  flowery  ways 

Of  peace  have  trod, 
Content  with  creed  and  garb  and  phrase : 
A  harder  path  in  earlier  days 

Led  up  to  God. 

Too  cheaply  truths,  once  purchased  dear, 

Are  made  our  own  ; 
Too  long  the  world  has  smiled  to  hear 
Our  boast  of  full  corn  in  the  ear 

By  others  sown ; 

To  see  us  stir  the  martyr  fires 

Of  long  ago, 
And  wrap  our  satisfied  desires 

vol.  ni.  16 


242 


ANTI-SLA  VERY  POEMS 


In  the  singed  mantles  that  our  sires 
Have  dropped  below. 

But  now  the  cross  our  worthies  bore 

On  us  is  laid  ; 
Profession's  quiet  sleep  is  o'er, 
And  in  the  scale  of  truth  once  more 

Our  faith  is  weighed. 

The  cry  of  innocent  blood  at  last 

Is  calling  down 
An  answer  in  the  whirlwind-blast, 
The  thunder  and  the  shadow  cast 

From  Heaven's  dark  frown. 

The  land  is  red  with  judgments.  Who 

Stands  guiltless  forth  ? 
Have  we  been  faithful  as  we  knew, 
To  God  and  to  our  brother  true, 

To  Heaven  and  Earth  ? 

How  faint,  through  din  of  merchandise 

And  count  of  gain, 
Have  seemed  to  us  the  captive's  cries ! 
How  far  away  the  tears  and  sighs 

Of  souls  in  pain  ! 

This  day  the  fearful  reckoning  comes 

To  each  and  all ; 
We  hear  amidst  our  peaceful  homes 
The  summons  of  the  conscript  drums, 

The  bugle's  call. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM 


243 


Our  path  is  plain  ;  the  war-net  draws 

Round  us  in  vain, 
While,  faithful  to  the  Higher  Cause, 
We  keep  our  fealty  to  the  laws 

Through  patient  pain. 

The  levelled  gun,  the  battle-brand, 

We  may  not  take  : 
But,  calmly  loyal,  we  can  stand 
And  suffer  with  our  suffering  land 

For  conscience'  sake. 

Why  ask  for  ease  where  all  is  pain  ? 

Shall  we  alone 
Be  left  to  add  our  gain  to  gain, 
When  over  Armageddon's  plain 

The  trump  is  blown  ? 

To  suffer  well  is  well  to  serve  ; 

Safe  in  our  Lord 
The  rigid  lines  of  law  shall  curve 
To  spare  us  ;  from  our  heads  shall  swerve 

Its  smiting  sword. 

And  light  is  mingled  with  the  gloom, 

And  joy  with  grief ; 
Divinest  compensations  come, 
Through  thorns  of  judgment  mercies  bloom 

In  sweet  relief. 

Thanks  for  our  privilege  to  bless, 
By  word  and  deed, 


244  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


The  widow  in  her  keen  distress, 
The  childless  and  the  fatherless, 
The  hearts  that  bleed  ! 

For  fields  of  duty,  opening  wide, 

Where  all  our  powers 
Are  tasked  the  eager  steps  to  guide 
Of  millions  on  a  path  untried  : 

The  slave  is  ours ! 

Ours  by  traditions  dear  and  old, 

Which  make  the  race 
Our  wards  to  cherish  and  uphold, 
And  cast  their  freedom  in  the  mould 

Of  Christian  grace. 

And  we  may  tread  the  sick-bed  floors 

Where  strong  men  pine, 
And,  down  the  groaning  corridors, 
Pour  freely  from  our  liberal  stores 

The  oil  and  wine. 

Who  murmurs  that  in  these  dark  days 

His  lot  is  cast  ? 
God's  hand  within  the  shadow  lays 
The  stones  whereon  His  gates  of  praise 

Shall  rise  at  last. 

Turn  and  o'erturn,  O  outstretched  Hand ! 

Nor  stint,  nor  stay ; 
The  years  have  never  dropped  their  sand 
On  mortal  issue  vast  and  grand 

As  ours  to-day. 


BARBARA  FR1ETCHIE  245 


Already,  on  the  sable  ground 

Of  man's  despair 
Is  Freedom's  glorious  picture  found, 
With  all  its  dusky  hands  unbound 

Upraised  in  prayer. 

Oh,  small  shall  seem  all  sacrifice 

And  pain  and  loss, 
When  God  shall  wipe  the  weeping  eyes, 
For  suffering  give  the  victor's  prize, 

The  crown  for  cross  ! 

BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 

This  poem  was  written  in  strict  conformity  to  the  account  of 
the  incident  as  I  had  it  from  respectable  and  trustworthy  sources. 
It  has  since  been  the  subject  of  a  good  deal  of  conflicting  testi- 
mony, and  the  story  was  probably  incorrect  in  some  of  its  de- 
tails. It  is  admitted  by  all  that  Barbara  Frietchie  was  no  myth, 
but  a  worthy  and  highly  esteemed  gentlewoman,  intensely  loyal 
and  a  hater  of  the  Slavery  Rebellion,  holding  her  Union  flag  sa- 
cred and  keeping  it  with  her  Bible  ;  that  when  the  Confederates 
halted  before  her  house,  and  entered  her  dooryard,  she  denounced 
them  in  vigorous  language,  shook  her  cane  in  their  faces,  and 
drove  them  out ;  and  when  General  Burnside's  troops  followed, 
close  upon  Jackson's,  she  waved  her  flag  and  cheered  them.  It: 
is  stated  that  May  Quantrell,  a  brave  and  loyal  lady  in  another 
part  of  the  city,  did  wave  her  flag  in  sight  of  the  Confederates. 
It  is  possible  that  there  has  been  a  blending  of  the  two  incidents. 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 


The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 


246 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain-wall ; 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten  ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down  ; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced ;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 


Barbara  Frietchie 


BARBARA  FRIETCH1E  247 


"  Halt !  "  —  the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
"  Fire  !  "  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word : 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog !    March  on !  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 


248  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave  ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town ! 
1863. 


WHAT  THE  BIRDS  SAID. 

The  birds  against  the  April  wind 

Flew  northward,  singing  as  they  flew ; 

They  sang,  "  The  land  we  leave  behind 

Has  swords  for  corn-blades,  blood  for  dew." 

"  O  wild-birds,  flying  from  the  South, 

What  saw  and  heard  ye,  gazing  down  ?  " 

"  We  saw  the  mortar's  upturned  mouth, 
The  sickened  camp,  the  blazing  town  ! 

"  Beneath  the  bivouac's  starry  lamps, 

We  saw  your  march-worn  children  die  ; 


WHAT  THE  BIRDS  SAID  249 


In  shrouds  of  moss,  in  cypress  swamps, 
We  saw  your  dead  uncoffined  lie. 

"  We  heard  the  starving  prisoner's  sighs, 
And  saw,  from  line  and  trench,  your  sons 
Follow  our  flight  with  home-sick  eyes 
Beyond  the  battery's  smoking  guns." 

"  And  heard  and  saw  ye  only  wrong 

And  pain,"  I  cried,  "  O  wing-worn  flocks?  " 

"  We  heard,"  they  sang,  "  the  freedman's  song, 
The  crash  of  Slavery's  broken  locks ! 

"  We  saw  from  new,  uprising  States 

The  treason-nursing  mischief  spurned, 
As,  crowding  Freedom's  ample  gates, 
The  long-estranged  and  lost  returned. 

"  O'er  dusky  faces,  seamed  and  old, 

And  hands  horn-hard  with  unpaid  toil, 
With  hope  in  every  rustling  fold, 
We  saw  your  star-dropt  flag  uncoil. 

"  And  struggling  up  through  sounds  accursed, 
A  grateful  murmur  clomb  the  air ; 
A  whisper  scarcely  heard  at  first, 

It  filled  the  listening  heavens  with  prayer. 

"  And  sweet  and  far,  as  from  a  star, 

Replied  a  voice  which  shall  not  cease, 
Till,  drowning  all  the  noise  of  war, 
It  sings  the  blessed  song  of  peace  !  " 


250  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


So  to  me,  in  a  doubtful  day 

Of  chill  and  slowly  greening  spring, 

Low  stooping  from  the  cloudy  gray, 
The  wild-birds  sang  or  seemed  to  sing. 

They  vanished  in  the  misty  air, 

The  song  went  with  them  in  their  flight ; 

But  lo  !  they  left  the  sunset  fair, 
And  in  the  evening  there  was  light. 

April,  1864. 

THE  MANTLE  OF  ST.  JOHN  DE  MATHA. 

A  LEGEND    OF  "TEE  RED,  WHITE,  AND   BLUE,"    A.  D. 

1154-1864. 

A  steong  and  mighty  Angel, 

Calm,  terrible,  and  bright, 
The  cross  in  blended  red  and  blue 

Upon  his  mantle  white  ! 

Two  captives  by  him  kneeling, 

Each  on  his  broken  chain, 
Sang  praise  to  God  who  raiseth 

The  dead  to  life  again  ! 

Dropping  his  cross-wrought  mantle, 
"  Wear  this,"  the  Angel  said  ; 
"  Take  thou,  O  Freedom's  priest,  its  sign,  — 
The  white,  the  blue,  and  red." 

Then  rose  up  John  de  Matha 

In  the  strength  the  Lord  Christ  gave, 


MANTLE  OF  ST.  JOHN  BE  MATHA  251 


And  begged  through  all  the  land  of  France 
The  ransom  of  the  slave. 

The  gates  of  tower  and  castle 

Before  him  open  flew, 
The  drawbridge  at  his  coming  fell, 

The  door-bolt  backward  drew» 

For  all  men  owned  his  errand, 

And  paid  his  righteous  tax  ; 
And  the  hearts  of  lord  and  peasant 

Were  in  his  hands  as  wax. 

At  last,  outbound  from  Tunis, 

His  bark  her  anchor  weighed, 
Freighted  with  seven-score  Christian  souls 

Whose  ransom  he  had  paid. 

But,  torn  by  Paynim  hatred, 

Her  sails  in  tatters  hung ; 
And  on  the  wild  waves,  rudderless, 

A  shattered  hulk  she  swung. 

"  God  save  us  !  "  cried  the  captain, 
"  For  naught  can  man  avail ; 
Oh,  woe  betide  the  ship  that  lacks 
Her  rudder  and  her  sail ! 

"  Behind  us  are  the  Moormen  ; 
At  sea  we  sink  or  strand  : 
There 's  death  upon  the  water, 
There 's  death  upon  the  land  !  " 


252  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Then  up  spake  J ohn  de  Matha  : 

"  God's  errands  never  fail ! 
Take  thou  the  mantle  which  I  wear5 

And  make  of  it  a  sail." 

They  raised  the  cross-wrought  mantle, 
The  blue,  the  white,  the  red ; 

And  straight  before  the  wind  off-shore 
The  ship  of  Freedom  sped. 

"  God  help  us  !  "  cried  the  seamen, 
"  For  vain  is  mortal  skill : 
The  good  ship  on  a  stormy  sea 
Is  drifting  at  its  will." 

Then  up  spake  John  de  Matha : 

"  My  mariners,  never  fear ! 
The  Lord  whose  breath  has  filled  her  sail 

May  well  our  vessel  steer  !  " 

So  on  through  storm  and  darkness 
They  drove  for  weary  hours  ; 

And  lo  !  the  third  gray  morning  shone 
On  Ostia's  friendly  towers. 

And  on  the  walls  the  watchers 

The  ship  of  mercy  knew,  — 
They  knew  far  off  its  holy  cross, 

The  red,  the  white,  and  blue. 

And  the  bells  in  all  the  steeples 

Rang  out  in  glad  accord, 
To  welcome  home  to  Christian  soil 

The  ransomed  of  the  Lord. 


MANTLE  OF  ST.  JOHN  DE  MATHA 


So  runs  the  ancient  legend 

By  bard  and  painter  told  ; 
And  lo  !  the  cycle  rounds  again, 

The  new  is  as  the  old  ! 

With  rudder  foully  broken, 
And  sails  by  traitors  torn, 
Our  country  on  a  midnight  sea 
Is  waiting  for  the  morn. 

Before  her,  nameless  terror ; 

Behind,  the  pirate  foe  ; 
The  clouds  are  black  above  her, 

The  sea  is  white  below. 

The  hope  of  all  who  suffer, 

The  dread  of  all  who  wrong, 
She  drifts  in  darkness  and  in  storm, 

How  long,  O  Lord  !  how  long  ? 

But  courage,  O  my  mariners  ! 

Ye  shall  not  suffer  wreck, 
While  up  to  God  the  freedman's  prayers 

Are  rising  from  your  deck. 

Is  not  your  sail  the  banner 
Which  God  hath  blest  anew, 

The  mantle  that  De  Matha  wore, 
The  red,  the  white,  the  blue  ? 

Its  hues  are  all  of  heaven,  — 

The  red  of  sunset's  dye, 
The  whiteness  of  the  moon-lit  cloud, 

The  blue  of  morning's  sky. 


254  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Wait  cheerily,  then,  O  mariners, 

For  daylight  and  for  land  ; 
The  breath  of  God  is  in  your  sail, 

Your  rudder  is  His  hand. 

Sail  on,  sail  on,  deep-freighted 
With  blessings  and  with  hopes  ; 

The  saints  of  old  with  shadowy  hands 
Are  pulling  at  your  ropes. 

Behind  ye  holy  martyrs 

Uplift  the  palm  and  crown  ; 
Before  ye  unborn  ages  send 

Their  benedictions  down. 

Take  heart  from  John  de  Matha !  — 

God's  errands  never  fail ! 
Sweep  on  through  storm  and  darkness, 

The  thunder  and  the  hail ! 

Sail  on !    The  morning  cometh, 

The  port  ye  yet  shall  win  ; 
And  all  the  bells  of  God  shall  ring 

The  good  ship  bravely  in ! 

1865. 

LAUS  DEO! 

On  hearing  the  bells  ring  on  the  passage  of  the  constitutional 
amendment  abolishing  slavery.  The  resolution  was  adopted  by 
Congress,  January  31,  1865.  The  ratification  by  the  requisite 
number  of  States  was  announced  December  18,  1865. 

It  is  done  ! 
Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 


LAUS  DEO! 

How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel ! 
How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal, 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town  ! 

King,  O  bells! 
Every  stroke  exulting  tells 

Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 

Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear, 
King  for  every  listening  ear 

Of  Eternity  and  Time  ! 

Let  us  kneel : 
God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 

And  this  spot  is  holy  ground. 

Lord,  forgive  us  !  What  are  we, 
That  our  eyes  this  glory  see, 

That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound  ! 

For  the  Lord 

On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad  ; 
In  the  earthquake  He  has  spoken  ; 

He  has  smitten  with  His  thunder 

The  iron  walls  asunder, 
And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken ! 

Loud  and  long 
Lift  the  old  exulting  song  ; 
Sing  with  Miriam  by  the  sea, 
He  has  cast  the  mighty  down  ; 
Horse  and  rider  sink  and  drown  ; 
"  He  hath  triumphed  gloriously !  " 

Did  we  dare, 
In  our  agony  of  prayer, 


256 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Ask  for  more  than  He  has  done  ? 

When  was  ever  His  right  hand 

Over  any  time  or  land 
Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun  ? 

How  they  pale, 
Ancient  myth  and  song  and  tale, 

In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 
When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  righteous  law, 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise ! 

Blotted  out ! 
All  within  and  all  about 

Shall  a  fresher  life  begin  ; 
Freer  breathe  the  universe 
As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse 

On  the  dead  and  buried  sin  ! 

It  is  done ! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth, 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice, 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice, 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth ! 

Eing  and  swing, 
Bells  of  joy  !    On  morning's  wing 

Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad ! 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns, 

Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God ! 

1865. 


HYMN 


257 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  EMANCIPATION  AT  NEW- 
BUR  YPORT. 

Not  unto  us  who  did  but  seek 

The  word  that  burned  within  to  speak, 

Not  unto  us  this  day  belong 

The  triumph  and  exultant  song. 

Upon  us  fell  in  early  youth 
The  burden  of  unwelcome  truth, 
And  left  us,  weak  and  frail  and  few, 
The  censor's  painful  work  to  do. 

Thenceforth  our  life  a  fight  became, 
The  air  we  breathed  was  hot  with  blame ; 
For  not  with  gauged  and  softened  tone 
We  made  the  bondman's  cause  our  own. 

We  bore,  as  Freedom's  hope  forlorn, 
The  private  hate,  the  public  scorn  ; 
Yet  held  through  all  the  paths  we  trod 
Our  faith  in  man  and  trust  in  God. 

We  prayed  and  hoped ;  but  still,  with  awe, 
The  coming  of  the  sword  we  saw ; 
We  heard  the  nearing  steps  of  doom, 
We  saw  the  shade  of  things  to  come. 

In  grief  which  they  alone  can  feel 
Who  from  a  mother's  wrong  appeal, 

vol.  in.  17 


258  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


With  blended  lines  o£  fear  and  hope 
We  cast  our  country's  horoscope. 

For  still  within  her  house  of  life 
We  marked  the  lurid  sign  of  strife, 
And,  poisoning  and  imbittering  all, 
We  saw  the  star  of  Wormwood  fall. 

Deep  as  our  love  for  her  became 
Our  hate  of  all  that  wrought  her  shame, 
And  if,  thereby,  with  tongue  and  pen 
We  erred,  —  we  were  but  mortal  men. 

We  hoped  for  peace ;  our  eyes  survey 
The  blood-red  dawn  of  Freedom's  day : 
We  prayed  for  love  to  loose  the  chain  ; 
'T  is  shorn  by  battle's  axe  in  twain ! 

Nor  skill  nor  strength  nor  zeal  of  ours 
Has  mined  and  heaved  the  hostile  towers  ; 
Not  by  our  hands  is  turned  the  key 
That  sets  the  sighing  captives  free. 

A  redder  sea  than  Egypt's  wave 
Is  piled  and  parted  for  the  slave  ; 
A  darker  cloud  moves  on  in  light ; 
A  fiercer  fire  is  guide  by  night ! 

The  praise,  O  Lord  !  is  Thine  alone, 
In  Thy  own  way  Thy  work  is  done ! 
Our  poor  gifts  at  Thy  feet  we  cast, 
To  whom  be  glory,  first  and  last ! 
1865. 


THE  PEACE  AUTUMN  259 


AFTEK  THE  WAK. 
THE  PEACE  AUTUMN. 

Written  for  the  Essex  County  Agricultural  Festival,  1865. 

Thank  God  for  rest,  where  none  molest, 

And  none  can  make  afraid ; 
For  Peace  that  sits  as  Plenty's  guest 

Beneath  the  homestead  shade ! 

Bring  pike  and  gun,  the  sword's  red  scourge, 

The  negro's  broken  chains, 
And  beat  them  at  the  blacksmith's  forge 

To  ploughshares  for  our  plains. 

Alike  henceforth  our  hills  of  snow, 
And  vales  where  cotton  flowers  ; 

All  streams  that  flow,  all  winds  that  blow, 
Are  Freedom's  motive-powers. 

Henceforth  to  Labor's  chivalry 

Be  knightly  honors  paid  ; 
For  nobler  than  the  sword's  shall  be 

The  sickle's  accolade. 

Build  up  an  altar  to  the  Lord, 

O  grateful  hearts  of  ours ! 
And  shape  it  of  the  greenest  sward 

That  ever  drank  the  showers. 

Lay  all  the  bloom  of  gardens  there, 
And  there  the  orchard  fruits ; 


260  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


Bring  golden  grain  from  sun  and  air, 
From  earth  her  goodly  roots. 

There  let  our  banners  droop  and  flow, 

The  stars  uprise  and  fall ; 
Our  roll  of  martyrs,  sad  and  slow, 

Let  sighing  breezes  call. 

Their  names  let  hands  of  horn  and  tan 
And  rough-shod  feet  applaud, 

Who  died  to  make  the  slave  a  man, 
And  link  with  toil  reward. 

There  let  the  common  heart  keep  time 

To  such  an  anthem  sung 
As  never  swelled  on  poet's  rhyme, 

Or  thrilled  on  singer's  tongue. 

Song  of  our  burden  and  relief, 

Of  peace  and  long  annoy  ; 
The  passion  of  our  mighty  grief 

And  our  exceeding  joy  ! 

A  song  of  praise  to  Him  who  filled 
The  harvests  sown  in  tears, 

And  gave  each  field  a  double  yield 
To  feed  our  battle-years  ! 

A  song  of  faith  that  trusts  the  end 

To  match  the  good  begun, 
Nor  doubts  the  power  of  Love  to  blend 

The  hearts  of  men  as  one  ! 


TO  THE  THIRTY-NINTH  CONGRESS  261 


TO  THE  THIRTY-NINTH  CONGRESS. 

The  thirty-ninth  congress  was  that  which  met  in  1865  after 
the  close  of  the  war,  when  it  was  charged  with  the  great  question 
of  reconstruction ;  the  uppermost  subject  in  men's  minds  was 
the  standing  of  those  who  had  recently  been  in  arms  against  the 
Union  and  their  relations  to  the  freedmen. 

O  people-chosen  !  are  ye  not 
Likewise  the  chosen  of  the  Lord, 
To  do  His  will  and  speak  His  word  ? 

From  the  loud  thunder-storm  of  war 
Not  man  alone  hath  called  ye  forth, 
But  He,  the  God  of  all  the  earth  ! 

The  torch  of  vengeance  in  your  hands 
He  quenches ;  unto  Him  belongs 
The  solemn  recompense  of  wrongs. 

Enough  of  blood  the  land  has  seen, 
And  not  by  cell  or  gallows-stair 
Shall  ye  the  way  of  God  prepare. 

Say  to  the  pardon-seekers  :  Keep 

Your  manhood,  bend  no  suppliant  knees, 
Nor  palter  with  unworthy  pleas. 

Above  your  voices  sounds  the  wail 
Of  starving  men  ;  we  shut  in  vain 
Our  eyes  to  Pillow's  ghastly  stain. 

What  words  can  drown  that  bitter  cry  ? 
What  tears  wash  out  the  stain  of  death  ? 
What  oaths  confirm  your  broken  faith  ? 


262 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


From  you  alone  the  guaranty 

Of  union,  freedom,  peace,  we  claim  ; 
We  urge  no  conqueror's  terms  of  shame. 

Alas  !  no  victor's  pride  is  ours  ; 
We  bend  above  our  triumphs  won 
Like  David  o'er  his  rebel  son. 

Be  men,  not  beggars.    Cancel  all 
By  one  brave,  generous  action  ;  trust 
Your  better  instincts,  and  be  just ! 

Make  all  men  peers  before  the  law, 

Take  hands  from  off  the  negro's  throat, 
Give  black  and  white  an  equal  vote. 

Keep  all  your  forfeit  lives  and  lands, 
But  give  the  common  law's  redress 
To  labor's  utter  nakedness. 

Revive  the  old  heroic  will ; 

Be  in  the  right  as  brave  and  strong 
As  ye  have  proved  yourselves  in  wrong. 

Defeat  shall  then  be  victory, 

Your  loss  the  wealth  of  full  amends, 
And  hate  be  love,  and  foes  be  friends. 

Then  buried  be  the  dreadful  past, 

Its  common  slain  be  mourned,  and  let 
All  memories  soften  to  regret. 


THE  HIVE  AT  GETTYSBURG  263 


Then  shall  the  Union's  mother-heart 
Her  lost  and  wandering  ones  recall, 
Forgiving  and  restoring  all,  — 

And  Freedom  break  her  marble  trance 
Above  the  Capitolian  dome, 
Stretch  hands,  and  bid  ye  welcome  home  ! 

November,  1865. 

THE  HIVE  AT  GETTYSBURG. 

In  the  old  Hebrew  myth  the  lion's  frame, 

So  terrible  alive, 
Bleached  by  the  desert's  sun  and  wind,  became 

The  wandering  wild  bees'  hive ; 
And  he  who,  lone  and  naked-handed,  tore 

Those  jaws  of  death  apart, 
In  after  time  drew  forth  their  honeyed  store 

To  strengthen  his  strong  heart. 

Dead  seemed  the  legend  :  but  it  only  slept 

To  wake  beneath  our  sky  ; 
Just  on  the  spot  whence  ravening  Treason  crept 

Back  to  its  lair  to  die, 
Bleeding  and   torn   from   Freedom's  mountain 
bounds, 

A  stained  and  shattered  drum 
Is  now  the  hive  where,  on  their  flowery  rounds, 

The  wild  bees  go  and  come. 

Unchallenged  by  a  ghostly  sentinel, 
They  wander  wide  and  far, 


264  ANTl-SLA  VER  Y  POEMS 


Along  green  hillsides,  sown  with  shot  and  shell, 
Through  vales  once  choked  with  war. 

The  low  reveille  of  their  battle-drum 
Disturbs  no  morning  prayer ; 

With  deeper  peace  in  summer  noons  their  hum 
Fills  all  the  drowsy  air. 

And  Samson's  riddle  is  our  own  to-day, 

Of  sweetness  from  the  strong, 
Of  union,  peace,  and  freedom  plucked  away 

From  the  rent  jaws  of  wrong. 
From  Treason's  death  we  draw  a  purer  life, 

As,  from  the  beast  he  slew, 
A  sweetness  sweeter  for  his  bitter  strife 

The  old-time  athlete  drew ! 
1868. 


HOWARD  AT  ATLANTA. 

Right  in  the  track  where  Sherman 

Ploughed  his  red  furrow, 
Out  of  the  narrow  cabin, 

Up  from  the  cellar's  burrow, 
Gathered  the  little  black  people, 

With  freedom  newly  dowered, 
Where,  beside  their  Northern  teacher, 

Stood  the  soldier,  Howard. 

He  listened  and  heard  the  children 
Of  the  poor  and  long-enslaved 


HOWARD  AT  ATLANTA 


265 


Reading  the  words  of  Jesus, 
Singing  the  songs  of  David. 

Behold  !  —  the  dumb  lips  speaking, 
The  blind  eyes  seeing  ! 

Bones  of  the  Prophet's  vision 
Warmed  into  being ! 

Transformed  he  saw  them  passing 

Their  new  life's  portal ! 
Almost  it  seemed  the  mortal 

Put  on  the  immortal. 
No  more  with  the  beasts  of  burden, 

No  more  with  stone  and  clod, 
But  crowned  with  glory  and  honor 

In  the  image  of  God ! 

There  was  the  human  chattel 

Its  manhood  taking ; 
There,  in  each  dark,  bronze  statue, 

A  soul  was  waking  ! 
The  man  of  many  battles, 

With  tears  his  eyelids  pressing, 
Stretched  over  those  dusky  foreheads 

His  one-armed  blessing. 

And  he  said :  "  Who  hears  can  never 

Fear  for  or  doubt  you  ; 
What  shall  I  tell  the  children 

Up  North  about  you  ?  " 
Then  ran  round  a  whisper,  a  murmur, 

Some  answer  devising ; 
And  a  little  boy  stood  up  :  "  General, 

Tell  'em  we  're  rising !  " 


266 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


O  black  boy  of  Atlanta ! 

But  half  was  spoken  : 
The  slave's  chain  and  the  master's 

Alike  are  broken. 
The  one  curse  of  the  races 

Held  both  in  tether  : 
They  are  rising,  —  all  are  rising, 

The  black  and  white  together ! 

O  brave  men  and  fair  women  ! 

Ill  comes  of  hate  and  scorning : 
Shall  the  dark  faces  only 

Be  turned  to  morning  ?  — 
Make  Time  your  sole  avenger, 

All-healing,  all-redressing ; 
Meet  Fate  half-way,  and  make  it 

A  joy  and  blessing! 

1869. 


THE  EMANCIPATION  GROUP. 

Moses  Kimball,  a  citizen  of  Boston,  presented  to  the  city  a 
duplicate  of  the  Freedman's  Memorial  statue  erected  in  Lincoln 
Square,  Washington.  The  group,  which  stands  in  Park  Square, 
represents  the  figure  of  a  slave,  from  whose  limbs  the  broken  fet- 
ters have  fallen,  kneeling  in  gratitude  at  the  feet  of  Lincoln.  The 
group  was  designed  by  Thomas  Ball,  and  was  unveiled  December 
9,  1879.    These  verses  were  written  for  the  occasion. 

Amidst  thy  sacred  effigies 

Of  old  renown  give  place, 
O  city,  Freedom-loved  !  to  his 

Whose  hand  unchained  a  race. 


The  Emancipation  Group 


THE  EMANCIPATION  GROUP 

Take  the  worn  frame,  that  rested  not 

Save  in  a  martyr's  grave ; 
The  care-lined  face,  that  none  forgot, 

Bent  to  the  kneeling  slave. 

Let  man  be  free  !  The  mighty  word 
He  spake  was  not  his  own  ; 

An  impulse  from  the  Highest  stirred 
These  chiselled  lips  alone. 

The  cloudy  sign,  the  fiery  guide, 

Along  his  pathway  ran, 
And  Nature,  through  his  voice,  denied 

The  ownership  of  man. 

We  rest  in  peace  where  these  sad  eyes 
Saw  peril,  strife,  and  pain  ; 

His  was  the  nation's  sacrifice, 
And  ours  the  priceless  gain. 

O  symbol  of  God's  will  on  earth 

As  it  is  done  above ! 
Bear  witness  to  the  cost  and  worth 

Of  justice  and  of  love. 

Stand  in  thy  place  and  testify 

To  coming  ages  long, 
That  truth  is  stronger  than  a  lie, 

And  righteousness  than  wrong. 


268  ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


THE  JUBILEE  SINGERS. 

A  number  of  students  of  Fisk  University,  under  the  direction 
of  one  of  the  officers,  gave  a  series  of  concerts  in  the  Northern 
States,  for  the  purpose  of  establishing  the  college  on  a  firmer  finan- 
cial foundation.  Their  hymns  and  songs,  mostly  in  a  minor  key, 
touched  the  hearts  of  the  people,  and  were  received  as  peculiarly 
expressive  of  a  race  delivered  from  bondage. 

Voice  of  a  people  suffering  long, 
The  pathos  of  their  mournful  song, 
The  sorrow  of  their  night  of  wrong ! 

Their  cry  like  that  which  Israel  gave, 
A  prayer  for  one  to  guide  and  save, 
Like  Moses  by  the  Red  Sea's  wave  ! 

The  stern  accord  her  timbrel  lent 
To  Miriam's  note  of  triumph  sent 
O'er  Egypt's  sunken  armament ! 

The  tramp  that  startled  camp  and  town, 
And  shook  the  walls  of  slavery  down, 
The  spectral  march  of  old  John  Brown ! 

The  storm  that  swept  through  battle-days, 

The  triumph  after  long  delays, 

The  bondmen  giving  God  the  praise  ! 

Voice  of  a  ransomed  race,  sing  on 
Till  Freedom's  every  right  is  won, 
And  slavery's  every  wrong  undone ! 
1880. 


GARRISON 


269 


GARRISON. 

The  earliest  poem  in  this  division  was  my  youthful  tribute  to 
the  great  reformer  when  himself  a  young  man  he  was  first  sound- 
ing his  trumpet  in  Essex  County.  I  close  with  the  verses  in- 
scribed to  him  at  the  end  of  his  earthly  career,  May  24,  1879. 
My  poetical  service  in  the  cause  of  freedom  is  thus  almost  synchro- 
nous with  his  life  of  devotion  to  the  same  cause. 

The  storm  and  peril  overpast, 

The  hounding  hatred  shamed  and  still, 

Go,  soul  of  freedom !  take  at  last 

The  place  which  thou  alone  canst  fill. 

Confirm  the  lesson  taught  of  old  — 
Life  saved  for  self  is  lost,  while  they 

Who  lose  it  in  His  service  hold 
The  lease  of  God's  eternal  day. 

Not  for  thyself,  but  for  the  slave 

Thy  words  of  thunder  shook  the  world ; 

No  selfish  griefs  or  hatred  gave 

The  strength  wherewith  thy  bolts  were  hurled. 

From  lips  that  Sinai's  trumpet  blew 

We  heard  a  tender  under  song  ; 
Thy  very  wrath  from  pity  grew, 

From  love  of  man  thy  hate  of  wrong. 

Now  past  and  present  are  as  one ; 

The  life  below  is  life  above ; 
Thy  mortal  years  have  but  begun 

Thy  immortality  of  love. 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS 


With  somewhat  of  thy  lofty  faith 
We  lay  thy  outworn  garment  by, 

Give  death  but  what  belongs  to  death, 
And  life  the  life  that  cannot  die  ! 

Not  for  a  soul  like  thine  the  calm 
Of  selfish  ease  and  joys  of  sense ; 

But  duty,  more  than  crown  or  palm, 
Its  own  exceeding  recompense. 

Go  up  and  on !  thy  day  well  done, 
Its  morning  promise  well  fulfilled, 

Arise  to  triumphs  yet  unwon, 

To  holier  tasks  that  God  has  willed. 

Go,  leave  behind  thee  all  that  mars 
The  work  below  of  man  for  man  ; 

With  the  white  legions  of  the  stars 
Do  service  such  as  angels  can. 

Wherever  wrong  shall  right  deny 
Or  suffering  spirits  urge  their  plea, 

Be  thine  a  voice  to  smite  the  lie, 
A  hand  to  set  the  captive  free ! 


SONGS  OF  LABOK  AND  EEFOEM 


THE  QUAKER  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME. 

The  Quaker  of  the  olden  time ! 

How  calm  and  firm  and  true, 
Unspotted  by  its  wrong  and  crime, 

He  walked  the  dark  earth  through. 
The  lust  of  power,  the  love  of  gain, 

The  thousand  lures  of  sin 
Around  him,  had  no  power  to  stain 

The  purity  within. 

With  that  deep  insight  which  detects 

All  great  things  in  the  small, 
And  knows  how  each  man's  life  affects 

The  spiritual  life  of  all, 
He  walked  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

By  love  and  not  by  law ; 
The  presence  of  the  wrong  or  right 

He  rather  felt  than  saw. 

He  felt  that  wrong  with  wrong  partakes, 

That  nothing  stands  alone, 
That  whoso  gives  the  motive,  makes 

His  brother's  sin  his  own. 


272      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


And,  pausing  not  for  doubtful  choice 

Of  evils  great  or  small, 
He  listened  to  that  inward  voice 

Which  called  away  from  all. 

0  Spirit  of  that  early  day, 

So  pure  and  strong  and  true, 
Be  with  us  in  the  narrow  way 

Oar  faithful  fathers  knew. 
Give  strength  the  evil  to  forsake, 

The  cross  of  Truth  to  bear, 
And  love  and  reverent  fear  to  make 

Our  daily  lives  a  prayer ! 

1838. 

DEMOCRACY. 

All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you,  do 
ye  even  so  to  them.  —  Matthew  vii.  12. 

Bearer  of  Freedom's  holy  light, 
Breaker  of  Slavery's  chain  and  rod, 

The  foe  of  all  which  pains  the  sight, 
Or  wounds  the  generous  ear  of  God  ! 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 

Though  there  profaning  gifts  are  thrown ; 
And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 

Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still  sacred,  though  thy  name  be  breathed 
By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  deride  ; 

And  garlands,  plucked  from  thee,  are  wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 


DEMOCRACY 


273 


Oh,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stained  thy  peaceful  courts  with  blood ! 

Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 

For  through  the  mists  which  darken  there, 

I  see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn,  — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer ! 

The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 
Which  owns  the  right  of  all  divine ; 

The  pitying  heart,  the  helping  arm, 
The  prompt  self-sacrifice,  are  thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 

How  fade  the  lines  of  caste  and  birth ! 

How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth ! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true, 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him ; 

As  stooped  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 
The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepelled,  unawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thou  seest  a  Man 

In  prince  or  peasant,  slave  or  lord, 
Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 

Through  all  disguise,  form,  place,  or  name, 
Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin, 

Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 
Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 

vol.  ni.  18 


274      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe'er  debased,  and  soiled,  and  dim, 

The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set, 
The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veiled  His  perfect  brightness  there. 

Not  from  the  shallow  babbling  fount 

Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art ; 
He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  Mount 

Thrilled,  warmed,  by  turns,  the  listener's  heart, 

In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 

In  thoughts  which  angels  leaned  to  know, 

Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high, 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe. 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain-side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 

I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 
And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 

Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 

At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring ; 
But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 

A  freeman's  dearest  offering  : 


THE  GALLOWS 


275 


The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will,  — 
His  pledge  to  Freedom  and  to  Truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 

Election  Bay,  1841. 

THE  GALLOWS. 

Written  on  reading  pamphlets  published  by  clergymen  against 
the  abolition  of  the  gallows. 

I. 

The  suns  of  eighteen  centuries  have  shone 

Since  the  Eedeemer  walked  with  man,  and  made 

The  fisher's  boat,  the  cavern's  floor  of  stone, 
And  mountain  moss,  a  pillow  for  His  head ; 

And  He,  who  wandered  with  the  peasant  Jew, 
And  broke  with  publicans  the  bread  of  shame, 
And  drank  with  blessings,  in  His  Father's  name, 

The  water  which  Samaria's  outcast  drew, 

Hath  now  His  temples  upon  every  shore, 

Altar  and  shrine  and  priest ;  and  incense  dim 
Evermore  rising,  with  low  prayer  and  hymn, 

From  lips  which  press  the  temple's  marble  floor, 

Or  kiss  the  gilded  sign  of  the  dread  cross  He  bora 

II. 

Yet  as  of  old,  when,  meekly  "  doing  good," 
He  fed  a  blind  and  selfish  multitude, 
And  even  the  poor  companions  of  His  lot 
With  their  dim  earthly  vision  knew  Him  not, 

How  ill  are  His  high  teachings  understood ! 
Where  He  hath  spoken  Liberty,  the  priest 

At  His  own  altar  binds  the  chain  anew ; 


276      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 

Where  He  hath  bidden  to  Life's  equal  feast, 

The  starving  many  wait  upon  the  few ; 
Where  He  hath  spoken  Peace,  His  name  hath  been 
The  loudest  war-cry  of  contending  men  ; 
Priests,  pale  with  vigils,  in  His  name  have  blessed 
The  unsheathed  sword,  and  laid  the  spear  in  rest, 
Wet  the  war-banner  with  their  sacred  wine, 
And  crossed  its  blazon  with  the  holy  sign ; 
Yea,  in  His  name  who  bade  the  erring  live, 
And  daily  taught  His  lesson,  to  forgive ! 

Twisted  the  cord  and  edged  the  murderous  steel ; 
And,  with  His  words  of  mercy  on  their  lips, 
Hung  gloating  o'er  the  pincer's  burning  grips, 

And  the  grim  horror  of  the  straining  wheel ; 
Fed  the  slow  flame  which  gnawed  the  victim's  limb, 
Who  saw  before  his  searing  eyeballs  swim 

The  image  of  their  Christ  in  cruel  zeal, 
Through  the  black  torment-smoke,  held  mockingly 
to  him ! 

in. 

The  blood  which  mingled  with  the  desert  sand, 
And  beaded  with  its  red  and  ghastly  dew 

The  vines  and  olives  of  the  Holy  Land ; 
The  shrieking  curses  of  the  hunted  J ew ; 

The  white-sown  bones  of  heretics,  where'er 

They  sank  beneath  the  Crusade's  holy  spear ; 

Goa's  dark  dungeons,  Malta's  sea-washed  cell, 
Where  with  the  hymns  the  ghostly  fathers  sung 
Mingled  the  groans  by  subtle  torture  wrung, 

Heaven's  anthem  blending  with  the  shriek  of  hell ! 

The  midnight  of  Bartholomew,  the  stake 

Of  Smithfield,  and  that  thrice-accursed  flame 

Which  Calvin  kindled  by  Geneva's  lake ; 


THE  GALLOWS 


217 


New  England's  scaffold,  and  the  priestly  sneer 
Which  mocked  its  victims  in  that  hour  of  fear, 

When  guilt  itself  a  human  tear  might  claim,  — 
Bear  witness,  O  Thou  wronged  and  merciful  One  ! 
That  Earth's  most  hateful  crimes  have  in  Thy 
name  been  done ! 

IV. 

Thank  God  !  that  I  have  lived  to  see  the  time 
When  the  great  truth  begins  at  last  to  find 
An  utterance  from  the  deep  heart  of  mankind, 
Earnest  and  clear,  that  all  Revenge  is  Crime, 
That  man  is  holier  than  a  creed,  that  all 

Restraint  upon  him  must  consult  his  good, 
Hope's  sunshine  linger  on  his  prison  wall, 

And  Love  look  in  upon  his  solitude. 
The  beautiful  lesson  which  our  Saviour  taught 
Through  long,  dark  centuries  its  way  hath  wrought 
Into  the  common  mind  and  popular  thought ; 
And  words,  to  which  by  Galilee's  lake  shore 
The  humble  fishers  listened  with  hushed  oar, 
Have  found  an  echo  in  the  general  heart, 
And  of  the  public  faith  become  a  living  part* 

v. 

Who  shall  arrest  this  tendency  ?    Bring  back 
The  cells  of  Venice  and  the  bigot's  rack  ? 
Harden  the  softening  human  heart  again 
To  cold  indifference  to  a  brother's  pain  ? 
Ye  most  unhappy  men !  who,  turned  away 
From  the  mild  sunshine  of  the  Gospel  day, 

Grope  in  the  shadows  of  Man's  twilight  time, 
What  mean  ye,  that  with  ghoul-like  zest  ye  brood, 


278      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 

O'er  those  foul  altars  streaming  with  warm  blood, 

Permitted  in  another  age  and  clime  ? 
Why  cite  that  law  with  which  the  bigot  Jew 
Rebuked  the  Pagan's  mercy,  when  he  knew 
No  evil  in  the  Just  One  ?    Wherefore  turn 
To  the  dark,  cruel  past  ?    Can  ye  not  learn 
From  the  pure  Teacher's  life  how  mildly  free 
Is  the  great  Gospel  of  Humanity  ? 
The  Flamen's  knife  is  bloodless,  and  no  more 
Mexitli's  altars  soak  with  human  gore, 
No  more  the  ghastly  sacrifices  smoke 
Through  the  green  arches  of  the  Druid's  oak ; 
And  ye  of  milder  faith,  with  your  high  claim 
Of  prophet-utterance  in  the  Holiest  name, 
Will  ye  become  the  Druids  of  our  time ! 
Set  up  your  scaffold-altars  in  our  land, 
And,  consecrators  of  Law's  darkest  crime, 

Urge  to  its  loathsome  work  the  hangman's  hand  ? 
Beware,  lest  human  nature,  roused  at  last, 
Prom  its  peeled  shoulder  your  encumbrance  cast, 

And,  sick  to  loathing  of  your  cry  for  blood, 
Rank  ye  with  those  who  led  their  victims  round 
The  Celt's  red  altar  and  the  Indian's  mound, 

Abhorred  of  Earth  and  Heaven,  a  pagan  bro- 
therhood ! 

1842. 

SEED-TIME  AND  HARVEST. 

As  o'er  his  furrowed  fields  which  lie 
Beneath  a  coldly  dropping  sky, 
Yet  chill  with  winter's  melted  snow, 
The  husbandman  goes  forth  to  sow, 


SEED-TIME  AND  HARVEST 


Thus,  Freedom,  on  the  bitter  blast 
The  ventures  of  thy  seed  we  cast, 
And  trust  to  warmer  sun  and  rain 
To  swell  the  germs  and  fill  the  grain. 

Who  calls  thy  glorious  service  hard  ? 
Who  deems  it  not  its  own  reward  ? 
Who,  for  its  trials,  counts  it  less 
A  cause  of  praise  and  thankfulness  ? 

It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield 
The  sickle  in  the  ripened  field ; 
Nor  ours  to  hear,  on  summer  eves, 
The  reaper's  song  among  the  sheaves. 

Yet  where  our  duty's  task  is  wrought 
In  unison  with  God's  great  thought, 
The  near  and  future  blend  in  one, 
And  whatsoe'er  is  willed,  is  done ! 

And  ours  the  grateful  service  whence 
Comes  day  by  day  the  recompense  ; 
The  hope,  the  trust,  the  purpose  stayed, 
The  fountain  and  the  noonday  shade. 

And  were  this  life  the  utmost  span, 
The  only  end  and  aim  of  man, 
Better  the  toil  of  fields  like  these 
Than  waking  dream  and  slothful  ease. 

But  life,  though  falling  like  our  grain, 
Like  that  revives  and  springs  again ; 


280      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


And,  early  called,  how  blest  are  they 
Who  wait  in  heaven  their  harvest-day  ! 
1843. 

TO  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

This  poem  was  addressed  to  those  who  like  Richard  Cobden  and 
John  Bright  were  seeking  the  reform  of  political  evils  in  Great 
Britain  by  peaceful  and  Christian  means.  It  will  be  remembered 
that  the  Anti-Corn  Law  League  was  in  the  midst  of  its  labors  at 
this  time. 

God  bless  ye,  brothers  !  in  the  fight 
Ye  're  waging  now,  ye  cannot  fail, 

For  better  is  your  sense  of  right 
Than  king-craft's  triple  mail. 

Than  tyrant's  law,  or  bigot's  ban, 
More  mighty  is  your  simplest  word ; 

The  free  heart  of  an  honest  man 
Than  crosier  or  the  sword. 

Go,  let  your  blinded  Church  rehearse 
The  lesson  it  has  learned  so  well ; 

It  moves  not  with  its  prayer  or  curse 
The  gates  of  heaven  or  hell. 

Let  the  State  scaffold  rise  again ; 

Did  Freedom  die  when  Russell  died  ? 
Forget  ye  how  the  blood  of  Vane 

From  earth's  green  bosom  cried  ? 

The  great  hearts  of  your  olden  time 
Are  beating  with  you,  full  and  strong ; 

All  holy  memories  and  sublime 
And  glorious  round  ye  throng. 


TO  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND  281 


The  bluff,  bold  men  of  Runnymede 
Are  with  ye  still  in  times  like  these  ; 

The  shades  of  England's  mighty  dead, 
Your  cloud  of  witnesses  ! 

The  truths  ye  urge  are  borne  abroad 

By  every  wind  and  every  tide  ; 
The  voice  of  Nature  and  of  God 

Speaks  out  upon  your  side. 

The  weapons  which  your  hands  have  found 
Are  those  which  Heaven  itself  has  wrought, 

Light,  Truth,  and  Love ;  your  battle-ground 
The  free,  broad  field  of  Thought. 

No  partial,  selfish  purpose  breaks 
The  simple  beauty  of  your  plan, 

Nor  lie  from  throne  or  altar  shakes 
Your  steady  faith  in  man. 

The  languid  pulse  of  England  starts 

And  bounds  beneath  your  words  of  power, 

The  beating  of  her  million  hearts 
Is  with  you  at  this  hour ! 

O  ye  who,  with  undoubting  eyes, 

Through  present  cloud  and  gathering  storm, 
Behold  the  span  of  Freedom's  skies, 

And  sunshine  soft  and  warm ; 

Press  bravely  onward  !  not  in  vain 
Your  generous  trust  in  human-kind  ; 

The  good  which  bloodshed  could  not  gain 
Your  peaceful  zeal  shall  find. 


282      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


Press  on !  the  triumph  shall  be  won 
Of  common  rights  and  equal  laws, 

The  glorious  dream  of  Harrington, 
And  Sidney's  good  old  cause. 

Blessing  the  cotter  and  the  crown, 
Sweetening  worn  Labor's  bitter  cup ; 

And,  plucking  not  the  highest  down, 
Lifting  the  lowest  up. 

Press  on  !  and  we  who  may  not  share 

The  toil  or  glory  of  your  fight 
May  ask,  at  least,  in  earnest  prayer, 

God's  blessing  on  the  right ! 

1843. 

THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE. 

Some  leading  sectarian  papers  Lad  lately  published  the  letter 
of  a  clergyman,  giving  an  account  of  his  attendance  upon  a  crim- 
inal (who  had  committed  murder  during  a  fit  of  intoxication),  at 
the  time  of  his  execution,  in  western  New  York.  The  writer  de- 
scribes the  agony  of  the  wretched  being,  his  abortive  attempts 
at  prayer,  his  appeal  for  life,  his  fear  of  a  violent  death ;  and, 
after  declaring  his  belief  that  the  poor  victim  died  without  hope 
of  salvation,  concludes  with  a  warm  eulogy  upon  the  gallows, 
being  more  than  ever  convinced  of  its  utility  by  the  awful  dread 
and  horror  which  it  inspired. 

I. 

Far  from  his  close  and  noisome  cell, 
By  grassy  lane  and  sunny  stream, 
Blown  clover  field  and  strawberry  dell, 
And  green  and  meadow  freshness,  fell 
The  footsteps  of  his  dream. 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE  283 


Again  from  careless  feet  the  dew 

Of  summer's  misty  morn  he  shook ; 
Again  with  merry  heart  he  threw 

His  light  line  in  the  rippling  brook. 
Back  crowded  all  his  school-day  joys  ; 

He  urged  the  ball  and  quoit  again, 
And  heard  the  shout  of  laughing  boys 

Come  ringing  down  the  walnut  glen. 
Again  he  felt  the  western  breeze, 

With  scent  of  flowers  and  crisping  hay  ; 
And  down  again  through  wind-stirred  trees 

He  saw  the  quivering  sunlight  play. 
An  angel  in  home's  vine-hung  door, 
He  saw  his  sister  smile  once  more  ; 
Once  more  the  truant's  brown-locked  head 
Upon  his  mother's  knees  was  laid, 
And  sweetly  lulled  to  slumber  there, 
With  evening's  holy  hymn  and  prayer  ! 

II. 

He  woke.    At  once  on  heart  and  brain 
The  present  Terror  rushed  again ; 
Clanked  on  his  limbs  the  felon's  chain ! 
He  woke,  to  hear  the  church-tower  tell 
Time's  footfall  on  the  conscious  bell, 
And,  shuddering,  feel  that  clanging  din 
His  life's  last  hour  had  ushered  in  ; 
To  see  within  his  prison-yard, 
Through  the  small  window,  iron  barred, 
The  gallows  shadow  rising  dim 
Between  the  sunrise  heaven  and  him ; 
A  horror  in  God's  blessed  air ; 
A  blackness  in  his  morning  light ; 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 

Like  some  foul  devil-altar  there 
Built  up  by  demon  hands  at  night. 
And,  maddened  by  that  evil  sight, 
Dark,  horrible,  confused,  and  strange, 
A  chaos  of  wild,  weltering  change, 
All  power  of  check  and  guidance  gone, 
Dizzy  and  blind,  his  mind  swept  on. 
In  vain  he  strove  to  breathe  a  prayer, 

In  vain  he  turned  the  Holy  Book, 
He  only  heard  the  gallows-stair 

Creak  as  the  wind  its  timbers  shook. 
No  dream  for  him  of  sin  forgiven, 
While  still  that  baleful  spectre  stood, 
"With  its   hoarse   murmur,  "  Blood  for 
Blood/" 

Between  him  and  the  pitying  Heaven ! 
in. 

Low  on  his  dungeon  floor  he  knelt, 

And  smote  his  breast,  and  on  his  chain, 
Whose  iron  clasp  he  always  felt, 

His  hot  tears  fell  like  rain ; 
And  near  him,  with  the  cold,  calm  look 
And  tone  of  one  whose  formal  part, 
Unwarmed,  unsoftened  of  the  heart, 
Is  measured  out  by  rule  and  book, 
With  placid  lip  and  tranquil  blood, 
The  hangman's  ghostly  ally  stood, 
Blessing  with  solemn  text  and  word 
The  gallows-drop  and  strangling  cord  5 
Lending  the  sacred  Gospel's  awe 
And  sanction  to  the  crime  of  Law. 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE 


IV. 

He  saw  the  victim's  tortured  brow, 
The  sweat  of  anguish  starting  there, 

The  record  of  a  nameless  woe 
In  the  dim  eye's  imploring  stare, 
Seen  hideous  through  the  long,  damp  hair, 

Fingers  of  ghastly  skin  and  bone 

Working  and  writhing  on  the  stone ! 

And  heard,  by  mortal  terror  wrung 

From  heaving  breast  and  stiffened  tongue, 
The  choking  sob  and  low  hoarse  prayer  ; 

As  o'er  his  half-crazed  fancy  came 

A  vision  of  the  eternal  flame, 

Its  smoking  cloud  of  agonies, 

Its  demon-worm  that  never  dies, 

The  everlasting  rise  and  fall 

Of  fire-waves  round  the  infernal  wall ; 

While  high  above  that  dark  red  flood, 

Black,  giant-like,  the  gallows  stood ; 

Two  busy  fiends  attending  there : 

One  with  cold  mocking  rite  and  prayer, 

The  other  with  impatient  grasp, 

Tightening  the  death-rope's  strangling  clasp. 

v. 

The  unf  elt  rite  at  length  was  done, 

The  prayer  unheard  at  length  was  said, 

An  hour  had  passed :  the  noonday  sun 
Smote  on  the  features  of  the  dead ! 

And  he  who  stood  the  doomed  beside, 

Calm  gauger  of  the  swelling  tide 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


Of  mortal  agony  and  fear, 
Heeding  with  curious  eye  and  ear 
Whatever  revealed  the  keen  excess 
Of  man's  extremest  wretchedness  : 
And  who  in  that  dark  anguish  saw 

An  earnest  of  the  victim's  fate, 
The  vengeful  terrors  of  God's  law, 

The  kindlings  of  Eternal  hate, 
The  first  drops  of  that  fiery  rain 
Which  beats  the  dark  red  realm  of  pain, 
Did  he  uplift  his  earnest  cries 

Against  the  crime  of  Law,  which  gave 

His  brother  to  that  fearful  grave, 
Whereon  Hope's  moonlight  never  lies, 

And  Faith's  white  blossoms  never  wave 
To  the  soft  breath  of  Memory's  sighs  ; 
Which  sent  a  spirit  marred  and  stained, 
By  fiends  of  sin  possessed,  profaned, 
In  madness  and  in  blindness  stark, 
Into  the  silent,  unknown  dark  ? 
No,  from  the  wild  and  shrinking  dread, 
With  which  he  saw  the  victim  led 

Beneath  the  dark  veil  which  divides 
Ever  the  living  from  the  dead, 

And  Nature's  solemn  secret  hides, 
The  man  of  prayer  can  only  draw 
New  reasons  for  his  bloody  law  ; 
New  faith  in  staying  Murder's  hand 
By  murder  at  that  Law's  command  ; 
New  reverence  for  the  gallows-rope, 
As  human  nature's  latest  hope  ; 
Last  relic  of  the  good  old  time, 
When  Power  found  license  for  its  crime, 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE  287 


And  held  a  writhing  world  in  check 

By  that  fell  cord  about  its  neck ; 

Stifled  Sedition's  rising  shout, 

Choked  the  young  breath  of  Freedom  out, 

And  timely  checked  the  words  which  sprung 

From  Heresy's  forbidden  tongue  ; 

While  in  its  noose  of  terror  bound, 

The  Church  its  cherished  union  found, 

Conforming,  on  the  Moslem  plan, 

The  motley-colored  mind  of  man, 

Not  by  the  Koran  and  the  Sword, 

But  by  the  Bible  and  the  Cord  ! 

VI. 

O  Thou !  at  whose  rebuke  the  grave 
Back  to  warm  life  its  sleeper  gave, 
Beneath  whose  sad  and  tearful  glance 
The  cold  and  changed  countenance 
Broke  the  still  horror  of  its  trance, 
And,  waking,  saw  with  joy  above, 
A  brother's  face  of  tenderest  love  ; 
Thou,  unto  whom  the  blind  and  lame, 
The  sorrowing  and  the  sin-sick  came, 
And  from  Thy  very  garment's  hem 
Drew  life  and  healing  unto  them, 
The  burden  of  Thy  holy  faith 
Was  love  and  life,  not  hate  and  death ; 
Man's  demon  ministers  of  pain, 

The  fiends  of  his  revenge,  were  sent 
From  thy  pure  Gospel's  element 
To  their  dark  home  again. 
Thy  name  is  Love  !    What,  then,  is  he, 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 

Who  in  that  name  the  gallows  rears, 

An  awful  altar  built  to  Thee, 

With  sacrifice  of  blood  and  tears  ? 

Oh,  once  again  Thy  healing  lay- 
On  the  blind  eyes  which  knew  Thee  not, 

And  let  the  light  of  Thy  pure  day 
Melt  in  upon  his  darkened  thought. 

Soften  his  hard,  cold  heart,  and  show 
The  power  which  in  forbearance  lies, 

And  let  him  feel  that  mercy  now 
Is  better  than  old  sacrifice  ! 

VII. 

As  on  the  White  Sea's  charmed  shore, 

The  Parsee  sees  his  holy  hill 10 
With  dunnest  smoke-clouds  curtained  o'er, 
Yet  knows  beneath  them,  evermore, 

The  low,  pale  fire  is  quivering  still ; 
So,  underneath  its  clouds  of  sin, 

The  heart  of  man  retaineth  yet 
Gleams  of  its  holy  origin  ; 

And  half -quenched  stars  that  never  set, 
Dim  colors  of  its  faded  bow, 

And  early  beauty,  linger  there, 
And  o'er  its  wasted  desert  blow 

Faint  breathings  of  its  morning  air. 
Oh,  never  yet  upon  the  scroll 
Of  the  sin-stained,  but  priceless  soul, 

Hath  Heaven  inscribed  "  Despair  !  " 
Cast  not  the  clouded  gem  away, 
Quench  not  the  dim  but  living  ray,  — 

My  brother  man,  Beware ! 
With  that  deep  voice  which  from  the  skies 


DEDICATION 


289 


Forbade  the  Patriarch's  sacrifice, 
God's  angel  cries,  Forbear ! 

1843. 

SONGS  OF  LABOR. 
DEDICATION. 

Prefixed  to  the  volume  of  which  the  group  of  six  poems  follow- 
ing this  prelude  constituted  the  first  portion. 

I  would  the  gift  I  offer  here 

Might  graces  from  thy  favor  take, 
And,  seen  through  Friendship's  atmosphere, 
On  softened  lines  and  coloring,  wear 
The  unaccustomed  light  of  beauty,  for  thy  sake. 

Few  leaves  of  Fancy's  spring  remain : 

But  what  I  have  I  give  to  thee, 
The  o'er-sunned  bloom  of  summer's  plain, 
And  paler  flowers,  the  latter  rain 
Calls  from  the  westering  slope  of  life's  autumnal 
lea. 

Above  the  fallen  groves  of  green, 

Where  youth's  enchanted  forest  stood, 
Dry  root  and  mossed  trunk  between, 
A  sober  after-growth  is  seen, 
As  springs  the  pine  where  falls  the  gay-leafed 
maple  wood ! 

Yet  birds  will  sing,  and  breezes  play 
Their  leaf -harps  in  the  sombre  tree ; 

TOL.  m.  19 


290      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


And  through  the  bleak  and  wintry  day- 
It  keeps  its  steady  green  alway,  — 
So,  even  my  after-thoughts  may  have  a  charm  for 
thee. 

Art's  perfect  forms  no  moral  need, 
And  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  ; 11 
But  for  the  dull  and  flowerless  weed 
Some  healing  virtue  still  must  plead, 
And  the  rough  ore  must  find  its  honors  in  its  use. 

So  haply  these,  my  simple  lays 

Of  homely  toil,  may  serve  to  show 
The  orchard  bloom  and  tasselled  maize 
That  skirt  and  gladden  duty's  ways, 
The  unsung  beauty  hid  life's  common  things  below. 

Haply  from  them  the  toiler,  bent 

Above  his  forge  or  plough,  may  gain, 
A  manlier  spirit  of  content, 
And  feel  that  life  is  wisest  spent 
Where  the  strong  working  hand  makes  strong  the 
working  brain. 

The  doom  which  to  the  guilty  pair 

Without  the  walls  of  Eden  came, 
Transforming  sinless  ease  to  care 
And  rugged  toil,  no  more  shall  bear 
The  burden  of  old  crime,  or  mark  of  primal 
shame. 

A  blessing  now,  a  curse  no  more ; 

Since  He,  whose  name  we  breathe  with  awe, 


THE  SHOEMAKERS 


291 


The  coarse  mechanic  vesture  wore, 
A  poor  man  toiling  with  the  poor, 
In  labor,  as  in  prayer,  fulfilling  the  same  law. 
1850. 

THE  SHOEMAKERS. 

Ho !  workers  of  the  old  time  styled 

The  Gentle  Craft  of  Leather  ! 
Young  brothers  of  the  ancient  guild, 

Stand  forth  once  more  together ! 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  olden  merry  manner  ! 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  your  blazoned  banner  ! 

Rap,  rap !  upon  the  well-worn  stone 

How  falls  the  polished  hammer  ! 
Rap,  rap  !  the  measured  sound  has  grown 

A  quick  and  merry  clamor. 
Now  shape  the  sole !  now  deftly  curl 

The  glossy  vamp  around  it, 
And  bless  the  while  the  bright-eyed  girl 

Whose  gentle  fingers  bound  it ! 

For  you,  along  the  Spanish  main 

A  hundred  keels  are  ploughing ; 
For  you,  the  Indian  on  the  plain 

His  lasso-coil  is  throwing ; 
For  you,  deep  glens  with  hemlock  dark 

The  woodman's  fire  is  lighting  ; 
For  you,  upon  the  oak's  gray  bark, 

The  woodman's  axe  is  smiting. 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 

For  you,  from  Carolina's  pine 

The  rosin-gum  is  stealing  ; 
For  you,  the  dark-eyed  Florentine 

Her  silken  skein  is  reeling ; 
For  you,  the  dizzy  goatherd  roams 

His  rugged  Alpine  ledges  ; 
For  you,  round  all  her  shepherd  homes, 

Bloom  England's  thorny  hedges. 

The  foremost  still,  by  day  or  night, 

On  moated  mound  or  heather, 
Where'er  the  need  of  trampled  right 

Brought  toiling  men  together  ; 
Where  the  free  burghers  from  the  wall 

Defied  the  mail-clad  master, 
Than  yours,  at  Freedom's  trumpet-call, 

No  craftsmen  rallied  faster. 

Let  foplings  sneer,  let  fools  deride, 

Ye  heed  no  idle  scorner ; 
Free  hands  and  hearts  are  still  your  pride, 

And  duty  done,  your  honor. 
Ye  dare  to  trust,  for  honest  fame, 

The  jury  Time  empanels, 
And  leave  to  truth  each  noble  name 

Which  glorifies  your  annals. 

Thy  songs,  Hans  Sachs,  are  living  yet, 
In  strong  and  hearty  German ; 

And  Bloomfield's  lay,  and  Gifford's  wit, 
And  patriot  fame  of  Sherman ; 

Still  from  his  book,  a  mystic  seer, 
The  soul  of  Behmen  teaches, 


THE  SHOEMAKERS 


And  England's  priestcraft  shakes  to  hear 
Of  Fox's  leathern  breeches. 

The  foot  is  yours ;  where'er  it  falls, 

It  treads  your  well-wrought  leather, 
On  earthen  floor,  in  marble  halls, 

On  carpet,  or  on  heather. 
Still  there  the  sweetest  charm  is  found 

Of  matron  grace  or  vestal's, 
As  Hebe's  foot  bore  nectar  round 

Among  the  old  celestials  ! 

Kap,  rap !  —  your  stout  and  bluff  brogan, 

With  footsteps  slow  and  weary, 
May  wander  where  the  sky's  blue  span 

Shuts  down  upon  the  prairie. 
On  Beauty's  foot  your  slippers  glance, 

By  Saratoga's  fountains, 
Or  twinkle  down  the  summer  dance 

Beneath  the  Crystal  Mountains ! 

The  red  brick  to  the  mason's  hand, 

The  brown  earth  to  the  tiller's, 
The  shoe  in  yours  shall  wealth  command, 

Like  fairy  Cinderella's ! 
As  they  who  shunned  the  household  maid 

Beheld  the  crown  upon  her, 
So  all  shall  see  your  toil  repaid 

With  hearth  and  home  and  honor. 

Then  let  the  toast  be  freely  quaffed, 
In  water  cool  and  brimming,  — 
"  All  honor  to  the  good  old  Craft, 
Its  merry  men  and  women !  " 


294     SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


Call  out  again  your  long  array, 
In  the  old  time's  pleasant  manner  : 

Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 
Fling  out  his  blazoned  banner  ! 

1845. 


THE  FISHERMEN. 

Hukkah!  the  seaward  breezes 

Sweep  down  the  bay  amain ; 
Heave  up,  my  lads,  the  anchor  ! 

Eun  up  the  sail  again  ! 
Leave  to  the  lubber  landsmen 

The  rail-car  and  the  steed ; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed. 

From  the  hill-top  looks  the  steeple, 

And  the  lighthouse  from  the  sand  ; 
And  the  scattered  pines  are  waving 

Their  farewell  from  the  land. 
One  glance,  my  lads,  behind  us, 

For  the  homes  we  leave  one  sigh, 
Ere  we  take  the  change  and  chances 

Of  the  ocean  and  the  sky. 

Now,  brothers,  for  the  icebergs 

Of  frozen  Labrador, 
Floating  spectral  in  the  moonshine, 

Along  the  low,  black  shore  ! 
Where  like  snow  the  gannet's  feathers 

On  Brador's  rocks  are  shed, 


The  Fishermen 


THE  FISHERMEN 


And  the  noisy  murr  are  flying, 
Like  black  scuds,  overhead  ; 

Where  in  mist  the  rock  is  hiding, 

And  the  sharp  reef  lurks  below, 
And  the  white  squall  smites  in  summer, 

And  the  autumn  tempests  blow  ; 
Where,  through  gray  and  rolling  vapor, 

From  evening  unto  morn, 
A  thousand  boats  are  hailing, 

Horn  answering  unto  horn. 

Hurrah  !  for  the  Red  Island, 

With  the  white  cross  on  its  crown  ! 
Hurrah !  for  Meccatina, 

And  its  mountains  bare  and  brown  ! 
Where  the  Caribou's  tall  antlers 

O'er  the  dwarf-wood  freely  toss, 
And  the  footstep  of  the  Mickmack 

Has  no  sound  upon  the  moss. 

There  we  '11  drop  our  lines,  and  gather 

Old  Ocean's  treasures  in, 
Where'er  the  mottled  mackerel 

Turns  up  a  steel-dark  fin. 
The  sea 's  our  field  of  harvest, 

Its  scaly  tribes  our  grain  ; 
We  '11  reap  the  teeming  waters 

As  at  home  they  reap  the  plain ! 

Our  wet  hands  spread  the  carpet, 
And  light  the  hearth  of  home  ; 

From  our  fish,  as  in  the  old  time, 
The  silver  coin  shall  come. 


296       SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


As  the  demon  fled  the  chamber 
Where  the  fish  of  Tobit  lay, 

So  ours  from  all  our  dwellings 
Shall  frighten  Want  away. 

Though  the  mist  upon  our  jackets 

In  the  bitter  air  congeals, 
And  our  lines  wind  stiff  and  slowly 

From  off  the  frozen  reels  ; 
Though  the  fog  be  dark  around  us, 

And  the  storm  blow  high  and  loud, 
We  will  whistle  down  the  wild  wind, 

And  laugh  beneath  the  cloud ! 

In  the  darkness  as  in  daylight, 

On  the  water  as  on  land, 
God's  eye  is  looking  on  us, 

And  beneath  us  is  His  hand  ! 
Death  will  find  us  soon  or  later, 

On  the  deck  or  in  the  cot ; 
And  we  cannot  meet  him  better 

Than  in  working  out  our  lot. 

Hurrah !  hurrah  !  the  west-wind 

Comes  freshening  down  the  bay, 
The  rising  sails  are  filling ; 

Give  way,  my  lads,  give  way ! 
Leave  the  coward  landsman  clinging 

To  the  dull  earth,  like  a  weed  ; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed ! 

1845. 


THE  LUMBERMEN 


297 


THE  LUMBERMEN. 

Wildly  round  our  woodland  quarters 

Sad-voiced  Autumn  grieves ; 
Thickly  down  these  swelling  waters 

Float  his  fallen  leaves. 
Through  the  tall  and  naked  timber, 

Column-like  and  old, 
Gleam  the  sunsets  of  November, 

From  their  skies  of  gold. 

O'er  us,  to  the  southland  heading, 

Screams  the  gray  wild-goose  ; 
On  the  night-frost  sounds  the  treading 

Of  the  brindled  moose. 
Noiseless  creeping,  while  we  're  sleeping, 

Frost  his  task-work  plies  ; 
Soon,  his  icy  bridges  heaping, 

Shall  our  log-piles  rise. 

When,  with  sounds  of  smothered  thunder, 

On  some  night  of  rain, 
Lake  and  river  break  asunder 

Winter's  weakened  chain, 
Down  the  wild  March  flood  shall  bear  them 

To  the  saw-mill's  wheel, 
Or  where  Steam,  the  slave,  shall  tear  them 

With  his  teeth  of  steel. 

Be  it  starlight,  be  it  moonlight, 
In  these  vales  below, 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


When  the  earliest  beams  of  sunlight 

Streak  the  mountain's  snow, 
Crisps  the  hoar-frost,  keen  and  early, 

To  our  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  forest  echoes  clearly 

All  our  blows  repeat. 

Where  the  crystal  Ambijejis 

Stretches  broad  and  clear, 
And  Millnoket's  pine-black  ridges 

Hide  the  browsing  deer  : 
Where,  through  lakes  and  wide  morasses, 

Or  through  rocky  walls, 
Swift  and  strong,  Penobscot  passes 

White  with  foamy  falls  ; 

Where,  through  clouds,  are  glimpses  given 

Of  Katahdin's  sides,  — 
Rock  and  forest  piled  to  heaven, 

Torn  and  ploughed  by  slides  ! 
Far  below,  the  Indian  trapping, 

In  the  sunshine  warm  ; 
Far  above,  the  snow-cloud  wrapping 

Half  the  peak  in  storm  ! 

Where  are  mossy  carpets  better 

Than  the  Persian  weaves, 
And  than  Eastern  perfumes  sweeter 

Seem  the  fading  leaves  ; 
And  a  music  wild  and  solemn, 

From  the  pine-tree's  height, 
Bolls  its  vast  and  sea-like  volume 

On  the  wind  of  night ; 


THE  LUMBERMEN 


299 


Make  we  here  our  camp  of  winter ; 

And,  through  sleet  and  snow, 
Pitchy  knot  and  beechen  splinter 

On  our  hearth  shall  glow. 
Here,  with  mirth  to  lighten  duty, 

We  shall  lack  alone 
"Woman's  smile  and  girlhood's  beauty, 

Childhood's  lisping  tone. 

But  their  hearth  is  brighter  burning 

For  our  toil  to-day  ; 
And  the  welcome  of  returning 

Shall  our  loss  repay, 
When,  like  seamen  from  the  waters, 

From  the  woods  we  come, 
Greeting  sisters,  wives,  and  daughters, 

Angels  of  our  home  ! 

Not  for  us  the  measured  ringing 

From  the  village  spire, 
Not  for  us  the  Sabbath  singing 

Of  the  sweet-voiced  choir  : 
Ours  the  old,  majestic  temple, 

Where  God's  brightness  shines 
Down  the  dome  so  grand  and  ample, 

Propped  by  lofty  pines ! 

Through  each  branch-enwoven  skylight, 

Speaks  He  in  the  breeze, 
As  of  old  beneath  the  twilight 

Of  lost  Eden's  trees  ! 
For  His  ear,  the  inward  feeling 

Needs  no  outward  tongue  ; 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 

He  can  see  the  spirit  kneeling 
While  the  axe  is  swung. 

Heeding  truth  alone,  and  turning 

From  the  false  and  dim, 
Lamp  of  toil  or  altar  burning 

Are  alike  to  Him. 
Strike,  then,  comrades  !    Trade  is  waiting 

On  our  rugged  toil ; 
Far  ships  waiting  for  the  freighting 

Of  our  woodland  spoil ! 

Ships,  whose  traffic  links  these  highlands, 

Bleak  and  cold,  of  ours, 
With  the  citron-planted  islands 

Of  a  clime  of  flowers ; 
To  our  frosts  the  tribute  bringing 

Of  eternal  heats ; 
In  our  lap  of  winter  flinging 

Tropic  fruits  and  sweets. 

Cheerly,  on  the  axe  of  labor, 

Let  the  sunbeams  dance, 
Better  than  the  flash  of  sabre 

Or  the  gleam  of  lance ! 
Strike  !    With  every  blow  is  given 

Freer  sun  and  sky, 
And  the  long-hid  earth  to  heaven 

Looks,  with  wondering  eye ! 

Loud  behind  us  grow  the  murmurs 

Of  the  age  to  come  ; 
Clang  of  smiths,  and  tread  of  farmers, 

Bearing  harvest  home ! 


THE  LUMBERMEN 


301 


Here  her  virgin  lap  with  treasures 
Shall  the  green  earth  fill ; 

Waving  wheat  and  golden  maize-ears 
Crown  each  beechen  hill. 

Keep  who  will  the  city's  alleys, 

Take  the  smooth-shorn  plain  ; 
Give  to  us  the  cedarn  valleys, 

Rocks  and  hills  of  Maine ! 
In  our  North-land,  wild  and  woody, 

Let  us  still  have  part : 
Rugged  nurse  and  mother  sturdy, 

Hold  us  to  thy  heart ! 

Oh,  our  free  hearts  beat  the  warmer 

For  thy  breath  of  snow  ; 
And  our  tread  is  all  the  firmer 

For  thy  rocks  below. 
Freedom,  hand  in  hand  with  labor, 

Walketh  strong  and  brave  ; 
On  the  forehead  of  his  neighbor 

No  man  writeth  Slave  ! 

Lo,  the  day  breaks !  old  Katahdin's 

Pine-trees  show  its  fires, 
While  from  these  dim  forest  gardens 

Rise  their  blackened  spires. 
Up,  my  comrades !  up  and  doing  ! 

Manhood's  rugged  play 
Still  renewing,  bravely  hewing 

Through  the  world  our  way  ! 

1845. 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


THE  SHIP-BUILDERS. 

The  sky  is  ruddy  in  the  east, 

The  earth  is  gray  below, 
And,  spectral  in  the  river-mist, 

The  ship's  white  timbers  show. 
Then  let  the  sounds  of  measured  stroke 

And  grating  saw  begin  ; 
The  broad-axe  to  the  gnarled  oak, 

The  mallet  to  the  pin ! 

Hark !  roars  the  bellows,  blast  on  blast, 

The  sooty  smithy  jars, 
And  fire-sparks,  rising  far  and  fast, 

Are  fading  with  the  stars. 
All  day  for  us  the  smith  shall  stand 

Beside  that  flashing  forge  ; 
All  day  for  us  his  heavy  hand 

The  groaning  anvil  scourge. 

From  far-off  hills,  the  panting  team 

For  us  is  toiling  near  ; 
For  us  the  raftsmen  down  the  stream 

Their  island  barges  steer. 
Kings  out  for  us  the  axe-man's  stroke 

In  forests  old  and  still ; 
For  us  the  century-circled  oak 

Falls  crashing  down  his  hill. 

Up !  up  !  in  nobler  toil  than  ours 

No  craftsmen  bear  a  part : 
We  make  of  Nature's  giant  powers 

The  slaves  of  human  Art. 


The  Ship-Builders 


THE  SHIP-BUILDERS 


Lay  rib  to  rib  and  beam  to  beam, 
And  drive  the  treenails  free  ; 

Nor  faithless  joint  nor  yawning  seam 
Shall  tempt  the  searching  sea  ! 

Where'er  the  keel  of  our  good  ship 

The  sea's  rough  field  shall  plough ; 
Where'er  her  tossing  spars  shall  drip 

With  salt-spray  caught  below  ; 
That  ship  must  heed  her  master's  beck, 

Her  helm  obey  his  hand, 
And  seamen  tread  her  reeling  deck 

As  if  they  trod  the  land. 

Her  oaken  ribs  the  vulture-beak 

Of  Northern  ice  may  peel ; 
The  sunken  rock  and  coral  peak 

May  grate  along  her  keel ; 
And  know  we  well  the  painted  shell 

We  give  to  wind  and  wave, 
Must  float,  the  sailor's  citadel, 

Or  sink,  the  sailor's  grave  ! 

Ho !  strike  away  the  bars  and  blocks, 

And  set  the  good  ship  free ! 
Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 

The  young  bride  of  the  sea  ? 
Look !  how  she  moves  adown  the  grooves, 

In  graceful  beauty  now ! 
How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 

Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow  ! 

God  bless  her  !  wheresoe'er  the  breeze 
Her  snowy  wing  shall  fan, 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


Aside  the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  Hindostan ! 
Where'er,  in  mart  or  on  the  main, 

With  peaceful  flag  unfurled, 
She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chain 
Of  commerce  round  the  world  ! 

Speed  on  the  ship !    But  let  her  bear 

No  merchandise  of  sin, 
No  groaning  cargo  of  despair 

Her  roomy  hold  within  ; 
No  Lethean  drug  for  Eastern  lands, 

Nor  poison-draught  for  ours  ; 
But  honest  fruits  of  toiling  hands 
And  Nature's  sun  and  showers. 

Be  hers  the  Prairie's  golden  grain, 

The  Desert's  golden  sand, 
The  clustered  fruits  of  sunny  Spain, 

The  spice  of  Morning-land  ! 
Her  pathway  on  the  open  main 

May  blessings  follow  free, 
And  glad  hearts  welcome  back  again 
Her  white  sails  from  the  sea ! 
1846. 

THE  DROVERS. 

Through  heat  and  cold,  and  shower  and 
Still  onward  cheerly  driving  ! 

There 's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 
And  rest  alone  in  striving. 

But  see !  the  day  is  closing  cool, 
The  woods  are  dim  before  us ; 


THE  DROVERS 


305 


The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 
Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  footsore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
The  landlord  beckons  from  his  door, 

His  beechen  fire  is  glowing  ; 
These  ample  barns,  with  feed  in  store, 

Are  filled  to  overflowing. 

From  many  a  valley  frowned  across 

By  brows  of  rugged  mountains  ; 
From  hillsides  where,  through  spongy  moss, 

Gush  out  the  river  fountains  ; 
From  quiet  farm-fields,  green  and  low, 

And  bright  with  blooming  clover  ; 
From  vales  of  corn  the  wandering  crow 

No  richer  hovers  over ; 

Day  after  day  our  way  has  been 

O'er  many  a  hill  and  hollow ; 
By  lake  and  stream,  by  wood  and  glen, 

Our  stately  drove  we  follow. 
Through  dust-clouds  rising  thick  and  dun, 

As  smoke  of  battle  o'er  us, 
Their  white  horns  glisten  in  the  sun, 

Like  plumes  and  crests  before  us. 

We  see  them  slowly  climb  the  hill, 
As  slow  behind  it  sinking ; 

vol.  m.  20 


306       SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


Or,  thronging  close,  from  roadside  rill. 

Or  sunny  lakelet,  drinking. 
Now  crowding  in  the  narrow  road, 

In  thick  and  struggling  masses, 
They  glare  upon  the  teamster's  load, 

Or  rattling  coach  that  passes. 

Anon,  with  toss  of  horn  and  tail, 

And  paw  of  hoof,  and  bellow, 
They  leap  some  farmer's  broken  pale, 

O'er  meadow-close  or  fallow. 
Forth  comes  the  startled  goodman  ;  forth 

Wife,  children,  house-dog,  sally, 
Till  once  more  on  their  dusty  path 

The  baffled  truants  rally. 

We  drive  no  starvelings,  scraggy  grown, 

Loose-legged,  and  ribbed  and  bony, 
Like  those  who  grind  their  noses  down 

On  pastures  bare  and  stony,  — 
Lank  oxen,  rough  as  Indian  dogs, 

And  cows  too  lean  for  shadows, 
Disputing  feebly  with  the  frogs 

The  crop  of  saw-grass  meadows  ! 

In  our  good  drove,  so  sleek  and  fair, 

No  bones  of  leanness  rattle ; 
No  tottering  hide-bound  ghosts  are  there, 

Or  Pharaoh's  evil  cattle. 
Each  stately  beeve  bespeaks  the  hand 

That  fed  him  unrepining ; 
The  fatness  of  a  goodly  land 

In  each  dun  hide  is  shining. 


THE  DROVERS 


307 


We 've  sought  them  where,  in  warmest  nooks, 

The  freshest  feed  is  growing, 
By  sweetest  springs  and  clearest  brooks 

Through  honeysuckle  flowing ; 
Wherever  hillsides,  sloping  south, 

Are  bright  with  early  grasses, 
Or,  tracking  green  the  lowland's  drouth, 

The  mountain  streamlet  passes. 

But  now  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us, 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 
The  cricket  to  the  frog's  bassoon 

His  shrillest  time  is  keeping ; 
The  sickle  of  yon  setting  moon 

The  meadow-mist  is  reaping. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  footsore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
To-morrow,  eastward  with  our  charge 

We  '11  go  to  meet  the  dawning, 
Ere  yet  the  pines  of  Kearsarge 

Have  seen  the  sun  of  morning. 

When  snow-flakes  o'er  the  frozen  earth, 

Instead  of  birds,  are  flitting ; 
When  children  throng  the  glowing  hearth, 

And  quiet  wives  are  knitting; 
While  in  the  fire-light  strong  and  clear 

Young  eyes  of  pleasure  glisten, 


308     SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


To  tales  of  all  we  see  and  hear 
The  ears  of  home  shall  listen. 

By  many  a  Northern  lake  and  hill, 

From  many  a  mountain  pasture, 
Shall  Fancy  play  the  Drover  still, 

And  speed  the  long  night  faster. 
Then  let  us  on,  through  shower  and  sun, 

And  heat  and  cold,  be  driving ; 
There  's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 

1847. 


THE  HUSKERS. 

It  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  autum- 
nal rain 

Had  left  the  summer  harvest-fields  all  green  with 
grass  again  ; 

The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving  all  the 
woodlands  gay 

With  the  hues  of  summer's  rainbow,  or  the  meadow- 
flowers  of  May. 

Through  a  thin,  dry  mist,  that  morning,  the  sun 

rose  broad  and  red, 
At  first  a  rayless  disk  of  fire,  he  brightened  as  he 

sped ; 

Yet,  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chastened  and  sub- 
dued, 

On  the  cornfields  and  the  orchards,  and  softly  pic- 
tured wood. 


THE  HUSKERS  309 

And  all  that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping  to  the 
night, 

He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze  with  yellow 
^  light; 

Slanting  through  the  painted  beeches,  he  glorified 
the  hill ; 

And,  beneath  it,  pond  and  meadow  lay  brighter, 
greener  still. 

And  shouting  boys  in  woodland  haunts  caught 

glimpses  of  that  sky, 
Flecked  by  the  many-tinted  leaves,  and  laughed, 

they  knew  not  why  ; 
And  school-girls,  gay  with  aster-flowers,  beside  the 

meadow  brooks, 
Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with  the  sunshine  of 

sweet  looks. 

From  spire  and  barn  looked  westerly  the  patient 

weathercocks ; 
But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  motionless 

as  rocks. 

No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save  the  squirrel's 
dropping  shell, 

And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs,  low  rust- 
ling as  they  fell. 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested ;  the  stubble- 
fields  lay  dry, 

Where  June  winds  rolled,  in  light  and  shade,  the 
pale  green  waves  of  rye ; 


310      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 

But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys  fringed 
with  wood, 

Ungathered,  bleaching  in  the  sun,  the  heavy  corn 
crop  stood. 

Bent  low,  by  autumn's  wind  and  rain,  through 

husks  that,  dry  and  sere, 
Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone  out  the 

yellow  ear ; 

Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many  a  ver- 
dant fold, 

And  glistened  in  the  slanting  light  the  pumpkin's 
sphere  of  gold. 

There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters ;  and  many  a 

creaking  wain 
Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn-floor  its  load  of  husk 

and  grain ; 

Till  broad  and  red,  as  when  he  rose,  the  sun  sank 

down,  at  last, 
And  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell,  the  day  in 

brightness  passed. 

And  lo !  as  through  the  western  pines,  on  meadow, 
stream,  and  pond, 

Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky,  set  all  afire  be- 
yond, 

Slowly  o'er  the  eastern  sea-bluffs  a  milder  glory 
shone, 

And  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise  were  mingled  into 
one ! 


THE  HUSKERS  311 

As  thus  into  the  quiet  night  the  twilight  lapsed 
away, 

And  deeper  in  the  brightening  moon  the  tranquil 

shadows  lay ; 
From  many  a  brown  old  farm-house,  and  hamlet 

without  name, 
Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks   done,  the 

merry  huskers  came. 

Swung  o'er  the  heaped-up  harvest,  from  pitchforks 
in  the  mow, 

Shone  dimly  down  the  lanterns  on  the  pleasant 

scene  below ; 
The  growing  pile  of  husks  behind,  the  golden  ears 

before, 

And  laughing  eyes  and  busy  hands  and  brown 
cheeks  glimmering  o'er. 

Half  hidden,  in  a  quiet  nook,  serene  of  look  and 
heart, 

Talking  their  old  times  over,  the  old  men  sat 
apart ; 

While  up  and  down  the  unhusked  pile,  or  nestling 
in  its  shade, 

At  hide-and-seek,  with  laugh  and  shout,  the  happy 
children  played. 

Urged  by  the  good  host's  daughter,  a  maiden  young 
and  fair, 

Lifting  to  light  her  sweet  blue  eyes  and  pride  of 
soft  brown  hair, 


312      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of  hair  and 

smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm,  a  husking- 

ballad  sung. 

THE  CORN-SONG. 

Heap  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard  ! 

Heap  high  the  golden  corn ! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 

From  out  her  lavish  horn ! 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean 

The  apple  from  the  pine, 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green, 

The  cluster  from  the  vine  ; 

We  better  love  the  hardy  gift 

Our  rugged  vales  bestow, 
To  cheer  us  when  the  storm  shall  drift 

Our  harvest-fields  with  snow. 

Through  vales  of  grass  and  meads  of  flowers 
Our  ploughs  their  furrows  made, 

While  on  the  hills  the  sun  and  showers 
Of  changeful  April  played. 

We  dropped  the  seed  o'er  hill  and  plain 

Beneath  the  sun  of  May, 
And  frightened  from  our  sprouting  grain 

The  robber  crows  away. 


THE  HUSKERS 


All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of  June 
Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 

And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 
Its  soft  and  yellow  hair. 

And  now,  with  autumn's  moonlit  eves, 

Its  harvest-time  has  come, 
We  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 

And  bear  the  treasure  home. 

There,  when  the  snows  about  us  drift, 

And  winter  winds  are  cold, 
Fair  hands  the  broken  grain  shall  sift, 

And  knead  its  meal  of  gold. 

Let  vapid  idlers  loll  in  silk 

Around  their  costly  board ; 
Give  us  the  bowl  of  samp  and  milk, 

By  homespun  beauty  poured  ! 

Where'er  the  wide  old  kitchen  hearth 

Sends  up  its  smoky  curls, 
Who  will  not  thank  the  kindly  earth, 

And  bless  our  farmer  girls ! 

Then  shame  on  all  the  proud  and  vain, 

Whose  folly  laughs  to  scorn 
The  blessing  of  our  hardy  grain, 

Our  wealth  of  golden  corn  ! 

Let  earth  withhold  her  goodly  root, 
Let  mildew  blight  the  rye, 


314     SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


Give  to  the  worm  the  orchard's  fruit, 
The  wheat-field  to  the  fly : 

But  let  the  good  old  crop  adorn 

The  hills  our  fathers  trod ; 
Still  let  us,  for  his  golden  corn, 

Send  up  our  thanks  to  God  ! 

1847. 

THE  REFORMER. 

All  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with  tan, 

I  saw  a  Strong  One,  in  his  wrath, 
Smiting  the  godless  shrines  of  man 
Along  his  path. 

The  Church,  beneath  her  trembling  dome, 

Essayed  in  vain  her  ghostly  charm : 
Wealth  shook  within  his  gilded  home 
With  strange  alarm. 

Fraud  from  his  secret  chambers  fled 

Before  the  sunlight  bursting  in : 
Sloth  drew  her  pillow  o'er  her  head 
To  drown  the  din. 

"  Spare,"  Art  implored,  "  yon  holy  pile ; 

That  grand,  old,  time-worn  turret  spare ;  " 
Meek  Reverence,  kneeling  in  the  aisle, 
Cried  out,  "  Forbear !  " 

Gray-bearded  Use,  who,  deaf  and  blind, 
Groped  for  his  old  accustomed  stone, 


THE  REFORMER 


315 


Leaned  on  his  staff,  and  wept  to  find 
His  seat  o'erthrown. 

Young  Romance  raised  his  dreamy  eyes, 
O'erhung  with  paly  locks  of  gold,  — 
"  Why  smite,"  he  asked  in  sad  surprise, 
"The  fair,  the  old?" 

Yet  louder  rang  the  Strong  One's  stroke, 

Yet  nearer  flashed  his  axe's  gleam ; 
Shuddering  and  sick  of  heart  I  woke, 
As  from  a  dream. 

I  looked  :  aside  the  dust-cloud  rolled, 

The  Waster  seemed  the  Builder  too ; 
Upspringing  from  the  ruined  Old 
I  saw  the  New. 

'T  was  but  the  ruin  of  the  bad,  — 

The  wasting  of  the  wrong  and  ill ; 
Whate'er  of  good  the  old  time  had 
Was  living  still. 

Calm  grew  the  brows  of  him  I  feared ; 

The  frown  which  awed  me  passed  away, 
And  left  behind  a  smile  which  cheered 
Like  breaking  day. 

The  grain  grew  green  on  battle-plains, 

O'er  swarded  war-mounds  grazed  the  cow ; 
The  slave  stood  forging  from  his  chains 
The  spade  and  plough. 


316       SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


Where  frowned  the  fort,  pavilions  gay 

And  cottage  windows,  flower-entwined, 
Looked  out  upon  the  peaceful  bay 
And  hills  behind. 

Through  vine-wreathed  cups  with  wine  once  red, 

The  lights  on  brimming  crystal  fell, 
Drawn,  sparkling,  from  the  rivulet  head 
And  mossy  well. 

Through  prison  walls,  like  Heaven-sent  hope, 
Fresh  breezes  blew,  and  sunbeams  strayed, 
And  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 

The  young  child  played. 

Where  the  doomed  victim  in  his  cell 
Had  counted  o'er  the  weary  hours, 
Glad  school-girls,  answering  to  the  bell, 
Came  crowned  with  flowers. 

Grown  wiser  for  the  lesson  given, 

I  fear  no  longer,  for  I  know 
That,  where  the  share  is  deepest  driven, 
The  best  fruits  grow. 

The  outworn  rite,  the  old  abuse, 

The  pious  fraud  transparent  grown, 
The  good  held  captive  in  the  use 
Of  wrong  alone,  — 

These  wait  their  doom,  from  that  great  law 
Which  makes  the  past  time  serve  to-day  ; 


THE  REFORMER 


317 


And  fresher  life  the  world  shall  draw 
From  their  decay. 

Oh,  backward-looking  son  of  time  ! 

The  new  is  old,  the  old  is  new, 
The  cycle  of  a  change  sublime 

Still  sweeping  through. 

So  wisely  taught  the  Indian  seer ; 

Destroying  Seva,  forming  Brahm, 
Who  wake  by  turns  Earth's  love  and  fear, 
Are  one,  the  same. 

Idly  as  thou,  in  that  old  day 

Thou  mournest,  did  thy  sire  repine ; 
So,  in  his  time,  thy  child  grown  gray 
Shall  sigh  for  thine. 

But  life  shall  on  and  upward  go ; 

Th'  eternal  step  of  Progress  beats 
To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow, 
Which  God  repeats. 

Take  heart !  the  Waster  builds  again,  — 

A  charmed  life  old  Goodness  hath ; 
The  tares  may  perish,  but  the  grain 
Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things ;  all  obey 

His  first  propulsion  from  the  night : 
Wake  thou  and  watch  !  the  world  is  gray 
With  morning  light ! 


318 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


THE  PEACE  CONVENTION  AT  BRUSSELS. 

Still  in  thy  streets,  O  Paris  !  doth  the  stain 
Of  blood  defy  the  cleansing  autunm  rain ; 
Still  breaks  the  smoke  Messina's  ruins  through, 
And  Naples  mourns  that  new  Bartholomew, 
When  squalid  beggary,  for  a  dole  of  bread, 
At  a  crowned  murderer's  beck  of  license,  fed 
The  yawning  trenches  with  her  noble  dead ; 
Still,  doomed  Vienna,  through  thy  stately  halls 
The  shell  goes  crashing  and  the  red  shot  falls, 
And,  leagued  to  crush  thee,  on  the  Danube's  side, 
The  bearded  Croat  and  Bosniak  spearman  ride ; 
Still  in  that  vale  where  Himalaya's  snow 
Melts  round  the  cornfields  and  the  vines  below, 
The  Sikh's  hot  cannon,  answering  ball  for  ball, 
Flames  in  the  breach  of  Moultan's  shattered  wall ; 
On  Chenab's  side  the  vulture  seeks  the  slain, 
And  Sutlej  paints  with  blood  its  banks  again. 

"  What  folly,  then,"  the  faithless  critic  cries, 
"With  sneering  lip,  and  wise  world-knowing  eyes, 
"  While  fort  to  fort,  and  post  to  post,  repeat 
The  ceaseless  challenge  of  the  war-drum's  beat, 
And  round  the  green  earth,  to  the  church-bell's 
chime, 

The  morning  drum-roll  of  the  camp  keeps  time, 
To  dream  of  peace  amidst  a  world  in  arms, 
Of  swords  to  ploughshares  changed  by  Scriptural 
charms, 

Of  nations,  drunken  with  the  wine  of  blood, 
Staggering  to  take  the  Pledge  of  Brotherhood, 


PEACE  CONVENTION  AT  BRUSSELS  319 


Like  tipplers  answering  Father  Mathew's  call ; 
The  sullen  Spaniard,  and  the  mad-cap  Gaul, 
The  bull-dog  Briton,  yielding  but  with  life, 
The  Yankee  swaggering  with  his  bowie-knife, 
The  Russ,  from  banquets  with  the  vulture  shared, 
The  blood  still  dripping  from  his  amber  beard, 
Quitting  their  mad  Berserker  dance  to  hear 
The  dull,  meek  droning  of  a  drab-coat  seer ; 
Leaving  the  sport  of  Presidents  and  Kings, 
Where  men  for  dice  each  titled  gambler  flings, 
To  meet  alternate  on  the  Seine  and  Thames, 
For  tea  and  gossip,  like  old  country  dames ! 
No  !  let  the  cravens  plead  the  weakling's  cant, 
Let  Cobden  cipher,  and  let  Vincent  rant, 
Let  Sturge  preach  peace  to  democratic  throngs, 
And  Burritt,  stammering  through  his  hundred 
tongues, 

Repeat,  in  all,  his  ghostly  lessons  o'er, 

Timed  to  the  pauses  of  the  battery's  roar ; 

Check  Ban  or  Kaiser  with  the  barricade 

Of  "  Olive-leaves  "  and  Resolutions  made, 

Spike  guns  with  pointed  Scripture-texts,  and  hope 

To  capsize  navies  with  a  windy  trope ; 

Still  shall  the  glory  and  the  pomp  of  War 

Along  their  train  the  shouting  millions  draw  ; 

Still  dusty  Labor  to  the  passing  Brave 

His  cap  shall  doff,  and  Beauty's  kerchief  wave  ; 

Still  shall  the  bard  to  Valor  tune  his  song, 

Still  Hero-worship  kneel  before  the  Strong ; 

Rosy  and  sleek,  the  sable-gowned  divine, 

O'er  his  third  bottle  of  suggestive  wine, 

To  plumed  and  sworded  auditors,  shall  prove 

Their  trade  accordant  with  the  Law  of  Love ; 


320      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


And  Church  for  State,  and  State  for  Church,  shall 
fight, 

And  both  agree,  that  "  Might  alone  is  Eight !  " 
Despite  of  sneers  like  these,  O  faithful  few, 
Who  dare  to  hold  God's  word  and  witness  true, 
Whose  clear-eyed  faith  transcends  our  evil  time, 
And  o'er  the  present  wilderness  of  crime 
Sees  the  calm  future,  with  its  robes  of  green, 
Its  fleece-flecked  mountains,  and  soft  streams  be- 
tween, — 

Still  keep  the  path  which  duty  bids  ye  tread, 
Though  worldly  wisdom  shake  the  cautious  head ; 
No  truth  from  Heaven  descends  upon  our  sphere, 
Without  the  greeting  of  the  skeptic's  sneer ; 
Denied  and  mocked  at,  till  its  blessings  fall, 
Common  as  dew  and  sunshine,  over  all. 

Then,  o'er  Earth's  war-field,  till  the  strife  shall 
cease, 

Like  Morven's  harpers,  sing  your  song  of  peace ; 
As  in  old  fable  rang  the  Thracian's  lyre, 
Midst  howl  of  fiends  and  roar  of  penal  fire, 
Till  the  fierce  din  to  pleasing  murmurs  fell, 
And  love  subdued  the  maddened  heart  of  hell. 
Lend,  once  again,  that  holy  song  a  tongue, 
Which  the  glad  angels  of  the  Advent  sung, 
Their  cradle-anthem  for  the  Saviour's  birth, 
Glory  to  God,  and  peace  unto  the  earth  ! 
Through  the  mad  discord  send  that  calming  word 
Which  wind  and  wave  on  wild  Genesareth  heard, 
Lift  in  Christ's  name  his  Cross  against  the  Sword ! 
Not  vain  the  vision  which  the  prophets  saw, 
Skirting  with  green  the  fiery  waste  of  war, 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT  321 


Through  the  hot  sand-gleam,  looming  soft  and  calm 
On  the  sky's  rim,  the  fountain-shading  palm. 
Still  lives  for  Earth,  which  fiends  so  long  have  trod, 
The  great  hope  resting  on  the  truth  of  God,  — 
Evil  shall  cease  and  Violence  pass  away, 
And  the  tired  world  breathe  free  through  a  long 
Sabbath  day. 
11th  mo.,  1848. 

THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT. 

Before  the  law  authorizing  imprisonment  for  debt  had  been 
abolished  in  Massachusetts,  a  revolutionary  pensioner  was  confined 
in  Charlestown  jail  for  a  debt  of  fourteen  dollars,  and  on  the 
fourth  of  July  was  seen  waving  a  handkerchief  from  the  bars  of 
his  cell  in  honor  of  the  day. 

Look  on  him  !  through  his  dungeon  grate, 

Feebly  and  cold,  the  morning  light 
Comes  stealing  round  him,  dim  and  late, 

As  if  it  loathed  the  sight. 
Reclining  on  his  strawy  bed, 
His  hand  upholds  his  drooping  head  ; 
His  bloodless  cheek  is  seamed  and  hard, 
Unshorn  his  gray,  neglected  beard ; 
And  o'er  his  bony  fingers  flow 
His  long,  dishevelled  locks  of  snow. 

No  grateful  fire  before  him  glows, 
And  yet  the  winter's  breath  is  chill ; 

And  o'er  his  half-clad  person  goes 
The  frequent  ague  thrill ! 

Silent,  save  ever  and  anon, 

A  sound,  half  murmur  and  half  groan, 

vol.  in.  21 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 

Forces  apart  the  painful  grip 
Of  the  old  sufferer's  bearded  lip  ; 
Oh,  sad  and  crushing  is  the  fate 
Of  old  age  chained  and  desolate ! 

J ust  God  !  why  lies  that  old  man  there  ? 

A  murderer  shares  his  prison  bed, 
Whose  eyeballs,  through  his  horrid  hair, 

Gleam  on  him,  fierce  and  red ; 
And  the  rude  oath  and  heartless  jeer 
Fall  ever  on  his  loathing  ear, 
And,  or  in  wakefulness  or  sleep, 
Nerve,  flesh,  and  pulses  thrill  and  creep 
Whene'er  that  ruffian's  tossing  limb, 
Crimson  with  murder,  touches  him ! 

What  has  the  gray-haired  prisoner  done  ? 

Has  murder  stained  his  hands  with  gore 
Not  so ;  his  crime 's  a  fouler  one  ; 

God  made  the  old  man  poor  ! 
For  this  he  shares  a  felon's  cell, 
The  fittest  earthly  type  of  hell ! 
For  this,  the  boon  for  which  he  poured 
His  young  blood  on  the  invader's  sword, 
And  counted  light  the  fearful  cost ; 
His  blood-gained  liberty  is  lost ! 

And  so,  for  such  a  place  of  rest, 

Old  prisoner,  dropped  thy  blood  as  rain 

On  Concord's  field,  and  Bunker's  crest, 
And  Saratoga's  plain  ? 

Look  forth,  thou  man  of  many  scars, 

Through  thy  dim  dungeon's  iron  bars  ; 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT  323 


It  must  be  joy,  in  sooth,  to  see 
Yon  monument  upreared  to  thee  ; 
Piled  granite  and  a  prison  cell,  — 
The  land  repays  thy  service  well ! 

Go,  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 
And  fling  the  starry  banner  out ; 
Shout  "  Freedom  !  "  till  your  lisping  ones 

Give  back  their  cradle-shout ; 
Let  boastful  eloquence  declaim 
Of  honor,  liberty,  and  fame  ; 
Still  let  the  poet's  strain  be  heard, 
With  glory  for  each  second  word, 
And  everything  with  breath  agree 
To  praise  "  our  glorious  liberty  !  " 

But  when  the  patron  cannon  jars 
That  prison's  cold  and  gloomy  wall, 

And  through  its  grates  the  stripes  and  stars 
Rise  on  the  wind,  and  fall, 

Think  ye  that  prisoner's  aged  ear 

Rejoices  in  the  general  cheer  ? 

Think  ye  his  dim  and  failing  eye 

Is  kindled  at  your  pageantry  ? 

Sorrowing  of  soul,  and  chained  of  limb, 

What  is  your  carnival  to  him  ? 

Down  with  the  law  that  binds  him  thus ! 

Unworthy  freemen,  let  it  find 
No  refuge  from  the  withering  curse 

Of  God  and  human-kind  ! 
Open  the  prison's  living  tomb, 
And  usher  from  its  brooding  gloom 


324      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


The  victims  of  your  savage  code 
To  the  free  sun  and  air  of  God  ; 
No  longer  dare  as  crime  to  brand 
The  chastening  of  the  Almighty's  hand. 
1849. 

THE  CHRISTIAN  TOURISTS. 

The  reader  of  the  biography  of  William  Allen,  the  philan- 
thropic associate  of  Clarkson  and  Romilly,  cannot  fail  to  admire 
his  simple  and  beautiful  record  of  a  tour  through  Europe,  in  the 
years  1818  and  1819,  in  the  company  of  his  American  friend,  Ste- 
phen Grellett. 

No  aimless  wanderers,  by  the  fiend  Unrest 

Goaded  from  shore  to  shore ; 
No  schoolmen,  turning,  in  their  classic  quest, 

The  leaves  of  empire  o'er. 
Simple  of  faith,  and  bearing  in  their  hearts 

The  love  of  man  and  God, 
Isles  of  old  song,  the  Moslem's  ancient  marts, 

And  Scythia's  steppes,  they  trod. 

Where  the  long  shadows  of  the  fir  and  pine 

In  the  night  sun  are  cast, 
And  the  deep  heart  of  many  a  Norland  mine 

Quakes  at  each  riving  blast ; 
Where,  in  barbaric  grandeur,  Moskwa  stands, 

A  baptized  Scythian  queen, 
With  Europe's  arts  and  Asia's  jewelled  hands, 

The  North  and  East  between  ! 

Where  still,  through  vales  of  Grecian  fable,  stray 
The  classic  forms  of  yore, 


THE  CHRISTIAN  TOURISTS  325 


And  beauty  smiles,  new  risen  from  the  spray, 

And  Dian  weeps  once  more  ; 
Where  every  tongue  in  Smyrna's  mart  resounds ; 

And  Stamboul  from  the  sea 
Lifts  her  tall  minarets  over  burial-grounds 

Black  with  the  cypress-tree  ! 

From  Malta's  temples  to  the  gates  of  Rome, 

Following  the  track  of  Paul, 
And  where  the  Alps  gird  round  the  Switzer's  home 

Their  vast,  eternal  wall ; 
They  paused  not  by  the  ruins  of  old  time, 

They  scanned  no  pictures  rare, 
Nor  lingered  where  the  snow-locked  mountains 
climb 

The  cold  abyss  of  air ! 

But  unto  prisons,  where  men  lay  in  chains, 

To  haunts  where  Hunger  pined, 
To  kings  and  courts  forgetful  of  the  pains 

And  wants  of  human-kind, 
Scattering  sweet  words,  and  quiet  deeds  of  good, 

Along  their  way,  like  flowers, 
Or  pleading,  as  Christ's  freemen  only  could, 

With  princes  and  with  powers  ; 

Their  single  aim  the  purpose  to  fulfil 

Of  Truth,  from  day  to  day, 
Simply  obedient  to  its  guiding  will, 

They  held  their  pilgrim  way. 
Yet  dream  not,  hence,  the  beautiful  and  old 

Were  wasted  on  their  sight, 
Who  in  the  school  of  Christ  had  learned  to  hold 

All  outward  things  aright. 


326       SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


Not  less  to  them  the  breath  of  vineyards  blown 

From  off  the  Cyprian  shore, 
Not  less  for  them  the  Alps  in  sunset  shone, 

That  man  they  valued  more. 
A  life  of  beauty  lends  to  all  it  sees 

The  beauty  of  its  thought ; 
And  fairest  forms  and  sweetest  harmonies 

Make  glad  its  way,  unsought. 

In  sweet  accordancy  of  praise  and  love, 

The  singing  waters  run  ; 
And  sunset  mountains  wear  in  light  above 

The  smile  of  duty  done  ; 
Sure  stands  the  promise,  —  ever  to  the  meek 

A  heritage  is  given  ; 
Nor  lose  they  Earth  who,  single-hearted,  seek 

The  righteousness  of  Heaven ! 

1849. 


THE  MEN  OF  OLD. 

Well  speed  thy  mission,  bold  Iconoclast ! 
Yet  all  unworthy  of  its  trust  thou  art, 
If,  with  dry  eye,  and  cold,  unloving  heart, 

Thou  tread'st  the  solemn  Pantheon  of  the  Past, 
By  the  great  Future's  dazzling  hope  made  blind 
To  all  the  beauty,  power,  and  truth  behind. 

Not  without  reverent  awe  shouldst  thou  put  by 
The  cypress  branches  and  the  amaranth  blooms, 
Where,  with  clasped  hands  of  prayer,  upon  their 
tombs 

The  effigies  of  old  confessors  lie, 


THE  MEN  OF  OLD 


327 


God's  witnesses  ;  the  voices  of  His  will, 
Heard  in  the  slow  march  of  the  centuries  still ! 
Such  were  the  men  at  whose  rebuking  frown, 
Dark  with  God's  wrath,  the  tyrant's  knee  went 
down ; 

Such  from  the  terrors  of  the  guilty  drew 
The  vassal's  freedom  and  the  poor  man's  due. 

St.  Anselm  (may  he  rest  forevermore 

In  Heaven's  sweet  peace  !)  forbade,  of  old,  the 
sale 

Of  men  as  slaves,  and  from  the  sacred  pale 
Hurled  the  Northumbrian  buyers  of  the  poor. 
To  ransom  souls  from  bonds  and  evil  fate 
St.  Ambrose  melted  down  the  sacred  plate,  — 
Image  of  saint,  the  chalice,  and  the  pix, 
Crosses  of  gold,  and  silver  candlesticks. 
"  Man  is  worth  more  than  temples  !  "  he  replied 
To  such  as  came  his  holy  work  to  chide. 
And  brave  Cesarius,  stripping  altars  bare, 

And  coining  from  the  Abbey's  golden  hoard 
The  captive's  freedom,  answered  to  the  prayer 

Or  threat  of  those  whose  fierce  zeal  for  the 
Lord 

Stifled  their  love  of  man5  —  "  An  earthen  dish 
The  last  sad  supper  of  the  Master  bore : 

Most  miserable  sinners  !  do  ye  wish 

More  than  your  Lord,  and  grudge  His  dying 
poor 

"What  your  own  pride  and  not  His  need  requires  ? 

Souls,  than  these  shining  gauds,  He  values  more  ; 
Mercy,  not  sacrifice,  His  heart  desires  !  " 
O  faithful  worthies !  resting  far  behind 


328      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


In  your  dark  ages,  since  ye  fell  asleep, 
Much  has  been  done  for  truth  and  human-kind ; 
Shadows  are  scattered  wherein  ye  groped  blind  ; 
Man  claims  his  birthright,  freer  pulses  leap 
Through  peoples  driven  in  your  day  like  sheep  ; 
Yet,  like  your  own,  our  age's  sphere  of  light, 
Though  widening  still,  is  walled  around  by  night ; 
With  slow,  reluctant  eye,  the  Church  has  read, 
Skeptic  at  heart,  the  lessons  of  its  Head ; 
Counting,  too  oft,  its  living  members  less 
Than  the  wall's  garnish  and  the  pulpit's  dress ; 
World-moving  zeal,  with  power  to  bless  and  feed 
Life's  fainting  pilgrims,  to  their  utter  need, 
Instead  of  bread,  holds  out  the  stone  of  creed ; 
Sect  builds  and  worships  where  its  wealth  and 
pride 

And  vanity  stand  shrined  and  deified, 
Careless  that  in  the  shadow  of  its  walls 
God's  living  temple  into  ruin  falls. 
We  need,  methinks,  the  prophet-hero  still, 
Saints  true  of  life,  and  martyrs  strong  of  will, 
To  tread  the  land,  even  now,  as  Xavier  trod 

The  streets  of  Goa,  barefoot,  with  his  bell, 
Proclaiming  freedom  in  the  name  of  God, 

And  startling  tyrants  with  the  fear  of  hell ! 

Soft  words,  smooth  prophecies,  are  doubtless 
well; 

But  to  rebuke  the  age's  popular  crime, 
We  need  the  souls  of  fire,  the  hearts  of  that  old 
time ! 

1849. 


TO  PIUS  IX. 


329 


TO  PIUS  IX. 

The  writer  of  these  lines  is  no  enemy  of  Catholics.  He  has,  on 
more  than  one  occasion,  exposed  himseK  to  the  censures  of  his 
Protestant  brethren,  by  his  strenuous  endeavors  to  procure  in- 
demnification for  the  owners  of  the  convent  destroyed  near  Bos- 
ton. He  defended  the  cause  of  the  Irish  patriots  long  before  it 
had  become  popular  in  this  country ;  and  he  was  one  of  the  first 
to  urge  the  most  liberal  aid  to  the  suffering  and  starving  popula- 
tion of  the  Catholic  island.  The  severity  of  his  language  finds  its 
ample  apology  in  the  reluctant  confession  of  one  of  the  most  emi- 
nent Romish  priests,  the  eloquent  and  devoted  Father  Ventura. 

The  cannon's  brazen  lips  are  cold  ; 

No  red  shell  blazes  down  the  air ; 
And  street  and  tower,  and  temple  old, 

Are  silent  as  despair. 

The  Lombard  stands  no  more  at  bay, 

Rome's  fresh  young  life  has  bled  in  vain  ; 

The  ravens  scattered  by  the  day 
Come  back  with  night  again. 

Now,  while  the  fratricides  of  France 
Are  treading  on  the  neck  of  Rome, 

Hider  at  Gaeta,  seize  thy  chance  ! 
Coward  and  cruel,  come  ! 

Creep  now  from  Naples'  bloody  skirt ; 

Thy  mummer's  part  was  acted  well, 
While  Rome,  with  steel  and  fire  begirt, 

Before  thy  crusade  fell ! 

Her  death-groans  answered  to  thy  prayer ; 

Thy  chant,  the  drum  and  bugle-call ; 
Thy  lights,  the  burning  villa's  glare  ; 

Thy  beads,  the  shell  and  ball ! 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 

Let  Austria  clear  thy  way,  with  hands 
Foul  from  Ancona's  cruel  sack, 

And  Naples,  with  his  dastard  bands 
Of  murderers,  lead  thee  back  ! 

Rome's  lips  are  dumb ;  the  orphan's  wail, 
The  mother's  shriek,  thou  mayst  not  hear 

Above  the  faithless  Frenchman's  hail, 
The  unsexed  shaveling's  cheer ! 

Go,  bind  on  Rome  her  cast-off  weight, 
The  double  curse  of  crook  and  crown, 

Though  woman's  scorn  and  manhood's  hate 
From  wall  and  roof  flash  down ! 

Nor  heed  those  blood-stains  on  the  wall, 
Not  Tiber's  flood  can  wash  away, 

Where,  in  thy  stately  Quirinal, 
Thy  mangled  victims  lay  ! 

Let  the  world  murmur ;  let  its  cry 
Of  horror  and  disgust  be  heard  ; 

Truth  stands  alone  ;  thy  coward  lie 
Is  backed  by  lance  and  sword  ! 

The  cannon  of  St.  Angelo, 

And  chanting  priest  and  clanging  bell, 
And  beat  of  drum  and  bugle  blow, 

Shall  greet  thy  coming  well ! 

Let  lips  of  iron  and  tongues  of  slaves 
Fit  welcome  give  thee ;  for  her  part, 


TO  PIUS  IX. 


331 


Rome,  frowning  o'er  her  new-made  graves, 
Shall  curse  thee  from  her  heart ! 

No  wreaths  of  sad  Campagna's  flowers 
Shall  childhood  in  thy  pathway  fling; 

No  garlands  from  their  ravaged  bowers 
Shall  Terni's  maidens  bring  ; 

But,  hateful  as  that  tyrant  old, 
The  mocking  witness  of  his  crime, 

In  thee  shall  loathing  eyes  behold 
The  Nero  of  our  time  ! 

Stand  where  Rome's  blood  was  freest  shed, 
Mock  Heaven  with  impious  thanks,  and  call 

Its  curses  on  the  patriot  dead, 
Its  blessings  on  the  Gaul ! 

Or  sit  upon  thy  throne  of  lies, 

A  poor,  mean  idol,  blood-besmeared, 

Whom  even  its  worshippers  despise, 
Unhonored,  unrevered ! 

Yet,  Scandal  of  the  World !  from  thee 
One  needful  truth  mankind  shall  learn : 

That  kings  and  priests  to  Liberty 
And  God  are  false  in  turn. 

Earth  wearies  of  them ;  and  the  long 

Meek  sufferance  of  the  Heavens  doth  fail ; 

Woe  for  weak  tyrants,  when  the  strong 
Wake,  struggle,  and  prevail ! 


332      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


Not  vainly  Roman  hearts  have  bled 
To  feed  the  Crosier  and  the  Crown, 

If,  roused  thereby,  the  world  shall  tread 
The  twin-born  vampires  down  ! 

1849. 

CALEF  IN  BOSTON. 
1692. 

In  the  solemn  days  of  old, 

Two  men  met  in  Boston  town, 

One  a  tradesman  frank  and  bold, 
One  a  preacher  of  renown. 

Cried  the  last,  in  bitter  tone: 
"  Poisoner  of  the  wells  of  truth  ! 

Satan's  hireling,  thou  hast  sown 

With  his  tares  the  heart  of  youth !  " 

Spake  the  simple  tradesman  then, 
"  God  be  judge  'twixt  thee  and  me  ; 

All  thou  knowed  of  truth  hath  been 
Once  a  lie  to  men  like  thee. 

"  Falsehoods  which  we  spurn  to-day 
Were  the  truths  of  long  ago  ; 
Let  the  dead  boughs  fall  away, 
Fresher  shall  the  living  grow. 

"  God  is  good  and  God  is  light, 
In  this  faith  I  rest  secure  ; 
Evil  can  but  serve  the  right, 
Over  all  shall  love  endure. 


OUR  STATE 


"  Of  your  spectral  puppet  play 

I  have  traced  the  cunning  wires  ; 
Come  what  will,  I  needs  must  say, 
God  is  true,  and  ye  are  liars." 

When  the  thought  of  man  is  free, 
Error  fears  its  lightest  tones  ; 

So  the  priest  cried,  "  Sadducee  !  " 
And  the  people  took  up  stones. 

In  the  ancient  burying-ground, 
Side  by  side  the  twain  now  lie  ; 

One  with  humble  grassy  mound, 
One  with  marbles  pale  and  high. 

But  the  Lord  hath  blest  the  seed 

Which  that  tradesman  scattered  then, 

And  the  preacher's  spectral  creed 
Chills  no  more  the  blood  of  men. 

Let  us  trust,  to  one  is  known 

Perfect  love  which  casts  out  fear, 

While  the  other's  joys  atone 
For  the  wroug  he  suffered  here. 

1849. 


OUR  STATE. 

The  South-land  boasts  its  teeming  cane, 
The  prairied  West  its  heavy  grain, 
And  sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold  ! 


334      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


Rough,  bleak,  and  hard,  our  little  State 
Is  scant  of  soil,  of  limits  strait ; 
Her  yellow  sands  are  sands  alone, 
Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone ! 

From  Autumn  frost  to  April  rain, 
Too  long  her  winter  woods  complain ; 
From  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 
Her  summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 

Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 
And  wintry  hills,  the  school-house  stands, 
And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies, 
The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 

The  riches  of  the  Commonwealth 

Are  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of  health  ; 

And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 

The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 
The  stubborn  strength  of  Pilgrim  Rock ; 
And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 
And  clearer  light,  the  Good  Old  Cause ! 

Nor  heeds  the  skeptic's  puny  hands, 
While  near  her  school  the  church-spire  stands ; 
Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot's  rule, 
While  near  her  church-spire  stands  the  school. 
1849. 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  NAPLES  335 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  NAPLES. 

I  have  been  thinking  of  the  victims  bound 

In  Naples,  dying  for  the  lack  of  air 

And  sunshine,  in  their  close,  damp  cells  of  pain, 

Where  hope  is  not,  and  innocence  in  vain 

Appeals  against  the  torture  and  the  chain ! 

Unfortunates !  whose  crime  it  was  to  share 

Our  common  love  of  freedom,  and  to  dare, 

In  its  behalf,  Rome's  harlot  triple-crowned, 

And  her  base  pander,  the  most  hateful  thing 

Who  upon  Christian  or  on  Pagan  ground 

Makes  vile  the  old  heroic  name  of  king. 

O  God  most  merciful !    Father  just  and  kind  ! 

Whom  man  hath  bound  let  thy  right  hand  unbind. 

Or,  if  thy  purposes  of  good  behind 

Their  ills  lie  hidden,  let  the  sufferers  find 

Strong  consolations  ;  leave  them  not  to  doubt 

Thy  providential  care,  nor  yet  without 

The  hope  which  all  thy  attributes  inspire, 

That  not  in  vain  the  martyr's  robe  of  fire 

Is  worn,  nor  the  sad  prisoner's  fretting  chain  ; 

Since  all  who  suffer  for  thy  truth  send  forth, 

Electrical,  with  every  throb  of  pain, 

Unquenchable  sparks,  thy  own  baptismal  rain 

Of  fire  and  spirit  over  all  the  earth, 

Making  the  dead  in  slavery  live  again. 

Let  this  great  hope  be  with  them,  as  they  lie 

Shut  from  the  light,  the  greenness,  and  the  sky  ; 

From  the  cool  waters  and  the  pleasant  breeze, 

The  smell  of  flowers,  and  shade  of  summer  trees ; 

Bound  with  the  felon  lepers,  whom  disease 


336      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


And  sins  abhorred  make  loathsome  ;  let  them  share 
Pellico's  faith,  Foresti's  strength  to  bear 
Years  of  unutterable  tormeut,  stern  and  still, 
As  the  chained  Titan  victor  through  his  will ! 
Comfort  them  with  thy  future  ;  let  them  see 
The  day-dawn  of  Italian  liberty ; 
For  that,  with  all  good  things,  is  hid  with  Thee, 
And,  perfect  in  thy  thought,  awaits  its  time  to  be ! 

I,  who  have  spoken  for  freedom  at  the  cost 
Of  some  weak  friendships,  or  some  paltry  prize 
Of  name  or  place,  and  more  than  I  have  lost 
Have  gained  in  wider  reach  of  sympathies, 
And  free  communion  with  the  good  and  wise ; 
May  God  forbid  that  I  should  ever  boast 
Such  easy  self-denial,  or  repine 
That  the  strong  pulse  of  health  no  more  is  mine ; 
That,  overworn  at  noonday,  I  must  yield 
To  other  hands  the  gleaning  of  the  field ; 
A  tired  on-looker  through  the  day's  decline. 
For  blest  beyond  deserving  still,  and  knowing 
That  kindly  Providence  its  care  is  showing 
In  the  withdrawal  as  in  the  bestowing, 
Scarcely  I  dare  for  more  or  less  to  pray. 
Beautiful  yet  for  me  this  autumn  day 
Melts  on  its  sunset  hills  ;  and,  far  away, 
For  me  the  Ocean  lifts  its  solemn  psalm, 
To  me  the  pine-woods  whisper  ;  and  for  me 
Yon  river,  winding  through  its  vales  of  calm, 
By  greenest  banks,  with  asters  purple-starred, 
And  gentian  bloom  and  golden-rod  made  gay, 
Flows  down  in  silent  gladness  to  the  sea, 
Like  a  pure  spirit  to  its  great  reward ! 


THE  PEACE  OF  EUROPE 


337 


Nor  lack  I  friends,  long-tried  and  near  and  dear, 
Whose  love  is  round  me  like  this  atmosphere, 
Warm,  soft,  and  golden.    For  such  gifts  to  me 
What  shall  I  render,  O  my  God,  to  thee  ? 
Let  me  not  dwell  upon  my  lighter  share 
Of  pain  and  ill  that  human  life  must  bear ; 
Save  me  from  selfish  pining ;  let  my  heart, 
Drawn  from  itself  in  sympathy,  forget 
The  bitter  longings  of  a  vain  regret, 
The  anguish  of  its  own  peculiar  smart. 
Remembering  others,  as  I  have  to-day, 
In  their  great  sorrows,  let  me  live  alway 
Not  for  myself  alone,  but  have  a  part, 
Such  as  a  frail  and  erring  spirit  may, 
In  love  which  is  of  Thee,  and  which  indeed  Thou 
art! 

1851. 

THE  PEACE  OF  EUROPE. 

"  Great  peace  in  Europe !    Order  reigns 
From  Tiber's  hills  to  Danube's  plains  !  " 
So  say  her  kings  and  priests ;  so  say 
The  lying  prophets  of  our  day. 

Go  lay  to  earth  a  listening  ear  ; 
The  tramp  of  measured  marches  hear  ; 
The  rolling  of  the  cannon's  wheel, 
The  shotted  musket's  murderous  peal, 
The  night  alarm,  the  sentry's  call, 
The  quick-eared  spy  in  hut  and  hall ! 
From  Polar  sea  and  tropic  fen 
The  dying-groans  of  exiled  men ! 

VOL.  III.  22 


338      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


The  bolted  cell,  the  galley's  chains, 
The  scaffold  smoking  with  its  stains  ! 
Order,  the  hush  of  brooding  slaves  ! 
Peace,  in  the  dungeon-vaults  and  graves  ! 

O  Fisher  !  of  the  world-wide  net, 

With  meshes  in  all  waters  set, 

Whose  fabled  keys  of  heaven  and  hell 

Bolt  hard  the  patriot's  prison-cell, 

And  open  wide  the  banquet-hall, 

Where  kings  and  priests  hold  carnival ! 

Weak  vassal  tricked  in  royal  guise, 

Boy  Kaiser  with  thy  lip  of  lies  ; 

Base  gambler  for  Napoleon's  crown, 

Barnacle  on  his  dead  renown ! 

Thou,  Bourbon  Neapolitan, 

Crowned  scandal,  loathed  of  God  and  man ; 

And  thou,  fell  Spider  of  the  North ! 

Stretching  thy  giant  feelers  forth, 

Within  whose  web  the  freedom  dies 

Of  nations  eaten  up  like  flies ! 

Speak,  Prince  and  Kaiser,  Priest  and  Czar ! 

If  this  be  Peace,  pray  what  is  War  ? 

White  Angel  of  the  Lord !  unmeet 
That  soil  accursed  for  thy  pure  feet. 
Never  in  Slavery's  desert  flows 
The  fountain  of  thy  charmed  repose ; 
No  tyrant's  hand  thy  chaplet  weaves 
Of  lilies  and  of  olive-leaves  ; 
Not  with  the  wicked  shalt  thou  dwell, 
Thus  saith  the  Eternal  Oracle  ; 
Thy  home  is  with  the  pure  and  free  ! 


A  STILE  A 


339 


Stern  herald  of  thy  better  day, 
Before  thee,  to  prepare  thy  way, 
The  Baptist  Shade  of  Liberty, 
Gray,  scarred  and  hairy-robed,  must  press 
With  bleeding  feet  the  wilderness ! 
Oh  that  its  voice  might  pierce  the  ear 
Of  princes,  trembling  while  they  hear 
A  cry  as  of  the  Hebrew  seer  : 
Repent !  God's  kingdom  draweth  near ! 
1852. 

ASTRiEA. 

' '  Jove  means  to  settle 
Astrsea  in  her  seat  again, 
And  let  down  from  his  golden  chain 
An  age  of  better  metal." 

Ben  Jonson,  1615. 

O  poet  rare  and  old  ! 

Thy  words  are  prophecies  ; 
Forward  the  age  of  gold, 

The  new  Saturnian  lies. 

The  universal  prayer 

And  hope  are  not  in  vain ; 

Rise,  brothers  !  and  prepare 
The  way  for  Saturn's  reign. 

Perish  shall  all  which  takes 
From  labor's  board  and  can ; 

Perish  shall  all  which  makes 
A  spaniel  of  the  man ! 


340 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


Free  from  its  bonds  the  mind, 

The  body  from  the  rod ; 
Broken  all  chains  that  bind 

The  image  of  our  God. 

Just  men  no  longer  pine 
Behind  their  prison-bars ; 

Through  the  rent  dungeon  shine 
The  free  sun  and  the  stars. 

Earth  own,  at  last,  untrod 
By  sect,  or  caste,  or  clan, 

The  fatherhood  of  God, 
The  brotherhood  of  man  ! 

Fraud  fail,  craft  perish,  forth 
The  money-changers  driven, 

And  God's  will  done  on  earth, 
As  now  in  heaven  ! 

1852. 

THE  DISENTHRALLED. 

He  had  bowed  down  to  drunkenness, 

An  abject  worshipper : 
The  pride  of  manhood's  pulse  had  grown 

Too  faint  and  cold  to  stir ; 
And  he  had  given  his  spirit  up 

To  the  unblessed  thrall, 
And  bowing  to  the  poison  cup, 

He  gloried  in  his  fall ! 

There  came  a  change  —  the  cloud  rolled  off, 
And  light  fell  on  his  brain  — 


THE  DISENTHRALLED 

And  like  the  passing  of  a  dream 

That  cometh  not  again, 
The  shadow  of  the  spirit  fled. 

He  saw  the  gulf  before, 
He  shuddered  at  the  waste  behind, 

And  was  a  man  once  more. 

He  shook  the  serpent  folds  away, 

That  gathered  round  his  heart, 
As  shakes  the  swaying  forest-oak 

Its  poison  vine  apart ; 
He  stood  erect ;  returning  pride 

Grew  terrible  within, 
And  conscience  sat  in  judgment,  on 

His  most  familiar  sin. 

The  light  of  Intellect  again 

Along  his  pathway  shone  ; 
And  Reason  like  a  monarch  sat 

Upon  his  olden  throne. 
The  honored  and  the  wise  once  more 

Within  his  presence  came  ; 
And  lingered  oft  on  lovely  lips 

His  once  forbidden  name. 

There  may  be  glory  in  the  might, 

That  treadeth  nations  down  ; 
Wreaths  for  the  crimson  conqueror, 

Pride  for  the  kingly  crown  ; 
But  nobler  is  that  triumph  hour, 

The  disenthralled  shall  find, 
When  evil  passion  boweth  down, 

Unto  the  Godlike  mind  ! 


342      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


THE  POOR  VOTER  ON  ELECTION  DAY. 

The  proudest  now  is  but  my  peer, 

The  highest  not  more  high  ; 
To-day,  of  all  the  weary  year, 

A  king  of  men  am  I. 
To-day,  alike  are  great  and  small, 

The  nameless  and  the  known  ; 
My  palace  is  the  people's  hall, 

The  ballot-box  my  throne  ! 

Who  serves  to-day  upon  the  list 

Beside  the  served  shall  stand  ; 
Alike  the  brown  and  wrinkled  fist, 

The  gloved  and  dainty  hand  ! 
The  rich  is  level  with  the  poor, 

The  weak  is  strong  to-day  ; 
And  sleekest  broadcloth  counts  no  more 

Than  homespun  frock  of  gray. 

To-day  let  pomp  and  vain  pretence 

My  stubborn  right  abide  ; 
I  set  a  plain  man's  common  sense 

Against  the  pedant's  pride. 
To-day  shall  simple  manhood  try 

The  strength  of  gold  and  land ; 
The  wide  world  has  not  wealth  to  buy 

The  power  in  my  right  hand  ! 

While  there  's  a  grief  to  seek  redress, 

Or  balance  to  adjust, 
Where  weighs  our  living  manhood  less 

Than  Mammon's  vilest  dust,  — 


THE  DREAM  OF  P10  NONO  343 

"While  there 's  a  right  to  need  my  vote, 

A  wrong  to  sweep  away, 
Up  !  clouted  knee  and  ragged  coat ! 

A  man 's  a  man  to-day  ! 

1848. 

THE  DREAM  OF  PIO  NONO. 

It  chanced  that  while  the  pious  troops  of  France 
Fought  in  the  crusade  Pio  Nono  preached, 
What  time  the  holy  Bourbons  stayed  his  hands 
(The  Hur  and  Aaron  meet  for  such  a  Moses), 
Stretched  forth  from  Naples  towards  rebellious 
Eome 

To  bless  the  ministry  of  Oudinot, 

And  sanctify  his  iron  homilies 

And  sharp  persuasions  of  the  bayonet, 

That  the  great  pontiff  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed. 

He  stood  by  Lake  Tiberias,  in  the  sun 
Of  the  bright  Orient ;  and  beheld  the  lame, 
The  sick,  and  blind,  kneel  at  the  Master's  feet, 
And  rise  up  whole.    And,  sweetly  over  all, 
Dropping  the  ladder  of  their  hymn  of  praise 
From  heaven  to  earth,  in  silver  rounds  of  song, 
He  heard  the  blessed  angels  sing  of  peace, 
Good-will  to  man,  and  glory  to  the  Lord. 

Then  one,  with  feet  unshod,  and  leathern  face 
Hardened  and  darkened  by  fierce  summer  suns 
And  hot  winds  of  the  desert,  closer  drew 
His  fisher's  haick,  and  girded  up  his  loins, 
And  spake,  as  one  who  had  authority  : 
"  Come  thou  with  me." 


344      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


Lakeside  and  eastern  sky 
And  the  sweet  song  of  angels  passed  away, 
And,  with  a  dream's  alacrity  of  change, 
The  priest,  and  the  swart  fisher  by  his  side, 
Beheld  the  Eternal  City  lift  its  domes 
And  solemn  fanes  and  monumental  pomp 
Above  the  waste  Campagna.    On  the  hills 
The  blaze  of  burning  villas  rose  and  fell, 
And  momently  the  mortar's  iron  throat 
Roared  from  the  trenches  ;  and,  within  the  walls, 
Sharp  crash  of  shells,  low  groans  of  human  pain, 
Shout,  drum  beat,  and  the  clanging  larum-bell, 
And  tramp  of  hosts,  sent  up  a  mingled  sound, 
Half  wail  and  half  defiance.    As  they  passed 
The  gate  of  San  Pancrazio,  human  blood 
Flowed  ankle-high  about  them,  and  dead  men 
Choked  the  long  street  with  gashed  and  gory 
piles,  — 

A  ghastly  barricade  of  mangled  flesh, 

From  which,  at  times,  quivered  a  living  hand, 

And  white  lips  moved  and  moaned.    A  father  tore 

His  gray  hairs,  by  the  body  of  his  son, 

In  frenzy ;  and  his  fair  young  daughter  wept 

On  his  old  bosom.    Suddenly  a  flash 

Clove  the  thick  sulphurous  air,  and  man  and  maid 

Sank,  crushed  and  mangled  by  the  shattering  shell. 

Then  spake  the  Galilean :  "  Thou  hast  seen 
The  blessed  Master  and  His  works  of  love  ; 
Look  now  on  thine  !    Hear'st  thou  the  angels  sing 
Above  this  open  hell  ?    Thou  God's  high-priest ! 
Thou  the  Vicegerent  of  the  Prince  of  Peace ! 
Thou  the  successor  of  His  chosen  ones  ! 


THE  VOICES 


345 


I,  Peter,  fisherman  of  Galilee, 
In  the  dear  Master's  name,  and  for  the  love 
Of  His  true  Church,  proclaim  thee  Antichrist, 
Alien  and  separate  from  His  holy  faith, 
Wide  as  the  difference  between  death  and  life, 
The  hate  of  man  and  the  great  love  of  God ! 
Hence,  and  repent !  " 

Thereat  the  pontiff  woke, 
Trembling,  and  muttering  o'er  his  fearful  dream. 
"  What  means  he  ?  "  cried  the  Bourbon.    "  Nothing 
more 

Than  that  your  majesty  hath  all  too  well 
Catered  for  your  poor  guests,  and  that,  in  sooth, 
The  Holy  Father's  supper  troubleth  him," 
Said  Cardinal  Antonelli,  with  a  smile. 
1853. 


THE  VOICES. 

"  Why  urge  the  long,  unequal  fight, 
Since  Truth  has  fallen  in  the  street, 
Or  lift  anew  the  trampled  light, 

Quenched  by  the  heedless  million's  feet? 

"  Give  o'er  the  thankless  task  ;  forsake 
The  fools  who  know  not  ill  from  good : 
Eat,  drink,  enjoy  thy  own,  and  take 
Thine  ease  among  the  multitude. 

"  Live  out  thyself ;  with  others  share 
Thy  proper  life  no  more  ;  assume 


346      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 

The  unconcern  of  sun  and  air, 

For  life  or  death,  or  blight  or  bloom. 

"  The  mountain  pine  looks  calmly  on 

The  fires  that  scourge  the  plains  below, 
Nor  heeds  the  eagle  in  the  sun 

The  small  birds  piping  in  the  snow ! 

"  The  world  is  God's,  not  thine  ;  let  Him 
Work  out  a  change,  if  change  must  be : 
The  hand  that  planted  best  can  trim 
And  nurse  the  old  unfruitful  tree." 

So  spake  the  Tempter,  when  the  light 
Of  sun  and  stars  had  left  the  sky ; 

I  listened,  through  the  cloud  and  night, 
And  heard,  methought,  a  voice  reply : 

"  Thy  task  may  well  seem  over-hard, 
Who  scatterest  in  a  thankless  soil 
Thy  life  as  seed,  with  no  reward 
Save  that  which  Duty  gives  to  Toil. 

"  Not  wholly  is  thy  heart  resigned 

To  Heaven's  benign  and  just  decree, 
Which,  linking  thee  with  all  thy  kind, 
Transmits  their  joys  and  griefs  to  thee. 

"  Break  off  that  sacred  chain,  and  turn 
Back  on  thyself  thy  love  and  care  ; 
Be  thou  thine  own  mean  idol,  burn 

Faith,  Hope,  and  Trust,  thy  children,  there. 


THE  VOICES 


347 


"  Eeleased  from  that  fraternal  law 

Which  shares  the  common  bale  and  bliss, 
No  sadder  lot  could  Folly  draw, 

Or  Sin  provoke  from  Fate,  than  this. 

"  The  meal  unshared  is  food  unblest : 

Thou  hoard'st  in  vain  what  love  should  spend ; 
Self -ease  is  pain  ;  thy  only  rest 
Is  labor  for  a  worthy  end  ; 

"  A  toil  that  gains  with  what  it  yields, 
And  scatters  to  its  own  increase, 
And  hears,  while  sowing  outward  fields, 
The  harvest-song  of  inward  peace. 

"  Free-lipped  the  liberal  streamlets  run, 
Free  shines  for  all  the  healthful  ray ; 
The  still  pool  stagnates  in  the  sun, 
The  lurid  earth-fire  haunts  decay  ! 

"  What  is  it  that  the  crowd  requite 

Thy  love  with  hate,  thy  truth  with  lies  ? 
And  but  to  faith,  and  not  to  sight, 
The  walls  of  Freedom's  temple  rise  ? 

"  Yet  do  thy  work ;  it  shall  succeed 
In  thine  or  in  another's  day ; 
And,  if  denied  the  victor's  meed, 
Thou  shalt  not  lack  the  toiler's  pay. 

"  Faith  shares  the  future's  promise  ;  Love's 
Self -offering  is  a  triumph  won ; 
And  each  good  thought  or  action  moves 
The  dark  world  nearer  to  the  sun. 


348      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


"  Then  faint  not,  falter  not,  nor  plead 
Thy  weakness  ;  truth  itself  is  strong ; 
The  lion's  strength,  the  eagle's  speed, 
Are  not  alone  vouchsafed  to  wrong. 

"  Thy  nature,  which,  through  fire  and  flood, 
To  place  or  gain  finds  out  its  way, 
Hath  power  to  seek  the  highest  good, 
And  duty's  holiest  call  obey  ! 

"  Strivest  thou  in  darkness  ?  —  Foes  without 
In  league  with  traitor  thoughts  within ; 
Thy  night-watch  kept  with  trembling  Doubt 
And  pale  Remorse  the  ghost  of  Sin  ? 

"  Hast  thou  not,  on  some  week  of  storm, 
Seen  the  sweet  Sabbath  breaking  fair, 
And  cloud  and  shadow,  sunlit,  form 
The  curtains  of  its  tent  of  prayer  ? 

"  So,  haply,  when  thy  task  shall  end, 
The  wrong  shall  lose  itself  in  right, 
And  all  thy  week-day  darkness  blend 
With  the  long  Sabbath  of  the  light !  " 

1854. 


THE  NEW  EXODUS. 

Written  upon  hearing-  that  slavery  had  been  formally  abolished 
in  Egypt.  Unhappily,  the  professions  and  pledges  of  the  vacil- 
lating government  of  Egypt  proved  unreliable. 

By  fire  and  cloud,  across  the  desert  sand, 
And  through  the  parted  waves, 


THE  NEW  EXODUS 


349 


From  their  long  bondage,  with  an  outstretched 
hand, 

God  led  the  Hebrew  slaves  ! 

Dead  as  the  letter  of  the  Pentateuch, 

As  Egypt's  statues  cold, 
In  the  adytum  of  the  sacred  book 

Now  stands  that  marvel  old. 

"  Lo,  God  is  great !  "  the  simple  Moslem  says. 

We  seek  the  ancient  date, 
Turn  the  dry  scroll,  and  make  that  living  phrase 

A  dead  one  :  "  God  was  great !  " 

And,  like  the  Coptic  monks  by  Mousa's  wells, 

We  dream  of  wonders  past, 
Vague  as  the  tales  the  wandering  Arab  tells, 

Each  drowsier  than  the  last. 

O  fools  and  blind !    Above  the  Pyramids 

Stretches  once  more  that  hand, 
And  tranced  Egypt,  from  her  stony  lids, 

Flings  back  her  veil  of  sand. 

And  morning-smitten  Memnon,  singing,  wakes ; 

And,  listening  by  his  Nile, 
O'er  Amnion's  grave  and  awful  visage  breaks 

A  sweet  and  human  smile. 

Not,  as  before,  with  hail  and  fire,  and  call 

Of  death  for  midnight  graves, 
But  in  the  stillness  of  the  noonday,  fall 

The  fetters  of  the  slaves. 


350      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


No  longer  through  the  Bed  Sea,  as  of  old, 

The  bondmen  walk  dry  shod  ; 
Through  human  hearts,  by  love  of  Him  controlled^ 

Runs  now  that  path  of  God  ! 

1856. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  FINLAND. 

' '  Joseph  Sturge,  with  a  companion,  Thomas  Harvey,  has  been 
visiting  the  shores  of  Finland,  to  ascertain  the  amount  of  mischief 
and  loss  to  poor  and  peaceable  sufferers,  occasioned  by  the  gun- 
boats of  the  allied  squadrons  in  the  late  war,  with  a  view  to 
obtaining  relief  for  them."  —  Friends'  Review. 

Ackoss  the  frozen  marshes 

The  winds  of  autumn  blow, 
And  the  fen-lands  of  the  Wetter 

Are  white  with  early  snow. 


But  where  the  low,  gray  headlands 
Look  o'er  the  Baltic  brine, 

A  bark  is  sailing  in  the  track 
Of  England's  battle-line. 

No  wares  hath  she  to  barter 
For  Bothnia's  fish  and  grain  ; 

She  saileth  not  for  pleasure, 
She  saileth  not  for  gain. 

But  still  by  isle  or  mainland 
She  drops  her  anchor  down, 

Where'er  the  British  cannon 
Rained  fire  on  tower  and  town. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  FINLAND 

Outspake  the  ancient  Amtman, 
At  the  gate  of  Helsingf ors  : 
"  Why  comes  this  ship  a-spying 

In  the  track  of  England's  wars  ?  " 

"  God  bless  her,"  said  the  coast-guard,  — 
"  God  bless  the  ship,  I  say. 
The  holy  angels  trim  the  sails 
That  speed  her  on  her  way ! 

"  Where'er  she  drops  her  anchor, 
The  peasant's  heart  is  glad ; 
Where'er  she  spreads  her  parting  sail, 
The  peasant's  heart  is  sad. 

"  Each  wasted  town  and  hamlet 
She  visits  to  restore  ; 
To  roof  the  shattered  cabin, 
And  feed  the  starving  poor. 

"  The  sunken  boats  of  fishers, 
The  foraged  beeves  and  grain, 
The  spoil  of  flake  and  storehouse, 
The  good  ship  brings  again. 

u  And  so  to  Finland's  sorrow 
The  sweet  amend  is  made, 
As  if  the  healing  hand  of  Christ 
Upon  her  wounds  were  laid  !  " 


Then  said  the  gray  old  Amtman, 
"  The  will  of  God  be  done  S 


352      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


The  battle  lost  by  England's  hate, 
By  England's  love  is  won  ! 

"  We  braved  the  iron  tempest 
That  thundered  on  our  shore ; 
But  when  did  kindness  fail  to  find 
The  key  to  Finland's  door  ? 

"  No  more  from  Aland's  ramparts 
Shall  warning  signal  come, 
Nor  startled  Sweaborg  hear  again 
The  roll  of  midnight  drum. 

"  Beside  our  fierce  Black  Eagle 
The  Dove  of  Peace  shall  rest ; 
And  in  the  mouths  of  cannon 
The  sea-bird  make  her  nest. 

"  For  Finland,  looking  seaward, 
No  coming  foe  shall  scan ; 
And  the  holy  bells  of  Abo 

Shall  ring,  4  Good-will  to  man  ! ' 

"  Then  row  thy  boat,  O  fisher  ! 
In  peace  on  lake  and  bay ; 
And  thou,  young  maiden,  dance  again 
Around  the  poles  of  May ! 

"  Sit  down,  old  men,  together, 
Old  wives,  in  quiet  spin ; 
Henceforth  the  Anglo-Saxon 
Is  the  brother  of  the  Finn !  " 

1856. 


THE  EVE  OF  ELECTION  353 


THE  EVE  OF  ELECTION. 

From  gold  to  gray 

Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  Summer  fades  too  soon ; 

But  tenderly 

Above  the  sea 
Hangs,  white  and  calm,  the  hunter's  moon. 

In  its  pale  fire, 

The  village  spire 
Shows  like  the  zodiac's  spectral  lance  ; 

The  painted  walls 

Whereon  it  falls 
Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance  ! 

O'er  fallen  leaves 

The  west-wind  grieves, 
Yet  comes  a  seed-time  round  again ; 

And  morn  shall  see 

The  State  sown  free 
With  baleful  tares  or  healthful  grain. 

Along  the  street 

The  shadows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose  hands  conceal 

The  moulds  of  fate 

That  shape  the  State, 
And  make  or  mar  the  common  weal. 

Around  I  see 

The  powers  that  be ; 

TOL.  ni.  23 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 

I  stand  by  Empire's  primal  springs ; 

And  princes  meet, 

In  every  street, 
And  hear  the  tread  of  uncrowned  kings  I 

Hark !  through  the  crowd 

The  laugh  runs  loud, 
Beneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

God  save  the  land 

A  careless  hand 
May  shake  or  swerve  ere  morrow's  noon  ! 

No  jest  is  this ; 

One  cast  amiss 
May  blast  the  hope  of  Freedom's  year. 

Oh,  take  me  where 

Are  hearts  of  prayer, 
And  foreheads  bowed  in  reverent  fear  ! 

Not  lightly  fall 

Beyond  recall 
The  written  scrolls  a  breath  can  float ; 

The  crowning  fact 

The  kingliest  act 
Of  Freedom  is  the  freeman's  vote ! 

For  pearls  that  gem 

A  diadem 
The  diver  in  the  deep  sea  dies ; 

The  regal  right 

We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sacrifice  ; 


THE  EVE  OF  ELECTION  355 


The  bloojd  of  Vane, 

His  prison  pain 
Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim  trod, 

And  hers  whose  faith 

Drew  strength  from  death, 
And  prayed  her  Eussell  up  to  God  ! 

Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 
A  right  which  brave  men  died  to  gain ; 

The  stake,  the  cord, 

The  axe,  the  sword, 
Grim  nurses  at  its  birth  of  pain. 

The  shadow  rend, 

And  o'er  us  bend, 
O  martyrs,  with  your  crowns  and  palms ; 

Breathe  through  these  throngs 

Your  battle  songs, 
Your  scaffold  prayers,  and  dungeon  psalms  ! 

Look  from  the  sky, 

Like  God's  great  eye, 
Thou  solemn  moon,  with  searching  beam, 

Till  in  the  sight 

Of  thy  pure  light 
Our  mean  self-seekings  meaner  seem. 

Shame  from  our  hearts 
Unworthy  arts, 
The  fraud  designed,  the  purpose  dark ; 


356      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


And  smite  away 
The  hands  we  lay- 
Profanely  on  the  sacred  ark. 

To  party  claims 

And  private  aims, 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 

Of  sovereign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done, 

And  strike  the  key 

Of  time  to  be, 
When  God  and  man  shall  speak  as  one ! 
1858. 


FROM  PERUGIA. 

"The  thing-  which  has  the  most  dissevered  the  people  from  the 
Pope,  —  the  unforgivable  thing,  —  the  breaking  point  between 
him  and  them,  —  has  been  the  encouragement  and  promotion  he 
gave  to  the  officer  under  whom  were  executed  the  slaughters  of 
Perugia.  That  made  the  breaking  point  in  many  honest  hearts 
that  had  clung  to  him  before."  — Harriet  Beecher  Stowe's 
Letters  from  Italy. 

The  tall,  sallow  guardsmen  their  horsetails  have 

spread, 

Flaming  out  in  their  violet,  yellow,  and  red ; 
And  behind  go  the  lackeys  in  crimson  and  buff, 
And  the  chamberlains  gorgeous  in  velvet  and  ruff ; 


FROM  PERUGIA 


357 


Next,  in  red-legged  pomp,  come  the  cardinals  forth, 
Each  a  lord  of  the  church  and  a  prince  of  the  earth. 

What 's  this  squeak  of  the  fife,  and  this  batter  of 
drum  ? 

Lo  !  the  Swiss  of  the  Church  from  Perugia  come ; 
The  militant  angels,  whose  sabres  drive  home 
To  the  hearts  of  the  malcontents,  cursed  and  ab- 
horred, 

The  good  Father's  missives,  and  "  Thus  saith  the 
Lord !  " 

And  lend  to  his  logic  the  point  of  the  sword ! 

O  maids  of  Etruria,  gazing  forlorn 
O'er  dark  Thrasymenus,  dishevelled  and  torn  ! 
O  fathers,  who  pluck  at  your  gray  beards  for 
shame ! 

O  mothers,  struck  dumb  by  a  woe  without  name  ! 
Well  ye  know  how  the  Holy  Church  hireling  be- 
haves, 

And  his  tender  compassion  of  prisons  and  graves  ! 

There  they  stand,  the  hired  stabbers,  the  blood- 
stains yet  fresh, 

That  splashed  like  red  wine  from  the  vintage  of 
flesh ; 

Grim  instruments,  careless  as  pincers  and  rack 
How  the  joints  tear  apart,  and  the  strained  sinews 
crack ; 

But  the  hate  that  glares  on  them  is  sharp  as  their 
swords, 

And  the  sneer  and  the  scowl  print  the  air  with 
fierce  words ! 


358      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 

Off  with  hats,  down  with  knees,  shout  your  vivas 
like  mad ! 

Here  's  the  Pope  in  his  holiday  righteousness  clad, 
From  shorn  crown  to  toe-nail,  kiss-worn  to  the 
quick, 

Of  sainthood  in  purple  the  pattern  and  pick, 
Who  the  role  of  the  priest  and  the  soldier  unites, 
And,  praying  like  Aaron,  like  Joshua  fights ! 

Is  this  Pio  Nono  the  gracious,  for  whom 
We  sang  our  hosannas  and  lighted  all  Rome ; 
With  whose  advent  we  dreamed  the  new  era  began 
When  the  priest  should  be  human,  the  monk  be  a 
man? 

Ah,  the  wolf 's  with  the  sheep,  and  the  fox  with 
the  fowl, 

When  freedom  we  trust  to  the  crosier  and  cowl ! 

Stand  aside,  men  of  Rome !  Here 's  a  hangman- 
faced  Swiss  — 

(A  blessing  for  him  surely  can't  go  amiss)  — 

Would  kneel  down  the  sanctified  slipper  to  kiss. 

Short  shrift  will  suffice  him,  —  he 's  blest  beyond 
doubt ; 

But  there  ?s  blood  on  his  hands  which  would  scarce- 
ly wash  out, 

Though  Peter  himself  held  the  baptismal  spout ! 

Make  way  for  the  next !  Here 's  another  sweet 
son ! 

What 's  this  mastiff -jawed  rascal  in  epaulets  done  ? 
He  did,  whispers  rumor,  (its  truth  God  forbid !) 
At  Perugia  what  Herod  at  Bethlehem  did. 


FROM  PERUGIA 


359 


And  the  mothers  ?    Don't  name  them !  these  hu- 
mors of  war 

They  who  keep  him  in  service  must  pardon  him 
for. 

Hist !  here 's  the  arch-knave  in  a  cardinal's  hat, 
With  the  heart  of  a  wolf,  and  the  stealth  of  a  cat 
(As  if  Judas  and  Herod  together  were  rolled), 
"Who  keeps,  all  as  one,  the  Pope's  conscience  and 
gold, 

Mounts  guard  on  the  altar,  and  pilfers  from 
thence, 

And  flatters  St.  Peter  while  stealing  his  pence  ! 

Who  doubts  Antonelli  ?    Have  miracles  ceased 
When  robbers  say  mass,  and  Barabbas  is  priest  ? 
When  the  Church  eats  and  drinks,  at  its  mystical 
board, 

The  true  flesh  and  blood  carved  and  shed  by  its 
sword, 

When  its  martyr,  unsinged,  claps  the  crown  on  his 
head, 

And  roasts,  as  his  proxy,  his  neighbor  instead ! 

There !  the  bells  jow  and  jangle  the  same  blessed 
way 

That  they  did  when  they  rang  for  Bartholomew's 
day. 

Hark !  the  tallow-faced  monsters,  nor  women  nor 
boys, 

Vex  the  air  with  a  shrill,  sexless  horror  of  noise. 
Te  Deum  laudamus  !    All  round  without  stint 
The  incense-pot  swings  with  a  taint  of  blood  in 't ! 


360      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


And  now  for  the  blessing  !    Of  little  account, 
You  know,  is  the  old  one  they  heard  on  the 
Mount. 

Its  giver  was  landless,  His  raiment  was  poor, 
No  jewelled  tiara  His  fishermen  wore  ; 
No  incense,  no  lackeys,  no  riches,  no  home, 
No  Swiss  guards !    We  order  things  better  at 
Eome. 

So  bless  us  the  strong  hand,  and  curse  us  the 
weak ; 

Let  Austria's  vulture  have  food  for  her  beak ; 
Let  the  wolf-whelp  of  Naples  play  Bomba  again, 
With  his  death-cap  of  silence,  and  halter,  and 
chain ; 

Put  reason,  and  justice,  and  truth  under  ban ; 
For  the  sin  unforgiven  is  freedom  for  man  ! 
1858. 


ITALY. 

Across  the  sea  I  heard  the  groans 

Of  nations  in  the  intervals 
Of  wind  and  wave,    Their  blood  and  bones 
Cried  out  in  torture,  crushed  by  thrones, 

And  sucked  by  priestly  cannibals. 

I  dreamed  of  Freedom  slowly  gained 

By  martyr  meekness,  patience,  faith, 
And  lo !  an  athlete  grimly  stained, 
With  corded  muscles  battle-strained, 
Shouting  it  from  the  fields  of  death  ! 


FREEDOM  IN  BRAZIL  361 


I  turn  me,  awe-struck,  from  the  sight, 

Among  the  clamoring  thousands  mute, 
I  only  know  that  God  is  right, 
And  that  the  children  of  the  light 
Shall  tread  the  darkness  under  foot. 

I  know  the  pent  fire  heaves  its  crust, 
That  sultry  skies  the  bolt  will  form 
To  smite  them  clear ;  that  Nature  must 
The  balance  of  her  powers  adjust, 

Though  with  the  earthquake  and  the  storm. 

God  reigns,  and  let  the  earth  rejoice ! 

I  bow  before  His  sterner  plan. 
Dumb  are  the  organs  of  my  choice ; 
He  speaks  in  battle's  stormy  voice, 

His  praise  is  in  the  wrath  of  man ! 

Yet,  surely  as  He  lives,  the  day 

Of  peace  He  promised  shall  be  ours, 

To  fold  the  flags  of  war,  and  lay 

Its  sword  and  spear  to  rust  away, 

And  sow  its  ghastly  fields  with  flowers  ! 

1860. 


FREEDOM  IN  BRAZIL. 

With  clearer  light,  Cross  of  the  South,  shine 
forth 

In  blue  Brazilian  skies ; 
And  thou,  O  river,  cleaving  half  the  earth 
From  sunset  to  sunrise, 


362      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


From  the  great  mountains  to  the  Atlantic  waves 

Thy  joy's  long  anthem  pour. 
Yet  a  few  years  (God  make  them  less  !)  and  slaves 

Shall  shame  thy  pride  no  more. 
No  fettered  feet  thy  shaded  margins  press ; 

But  all  men  shall  walk  free 
Where  thou,  the  high-priest  of  the  wilderness, 

Hast  wedded  sea  to  sea. 

And  thou,   great-hearted   ruler,   through  whose 
mouth 
The  word  of  God  is  said, 
Once  more,  "  Let  there  be  light !  "  —  Son  of  the 
South, 

Lift  up  thy  honored  head, 
Wear  unashamed  a  crown  by  thy  desert 

More  than  by  birth  thy  own, 
Careless  of  watch  and  ward  ;  thou  art  begirt 

By  grateful  hearts  alone. 
The  moated  wall  and  battle-ship  may  fail, 

But  safe  shall  justice  prove  ; 
Stronger  than  greaves  of  brass  or  iron  mail 

The  panoply  of  love. 

Crowned  doubly   by  man's  blessing  and  God's 
grace, 

Thy  future  is  secure  ; 
Who  frees  a  people  makes  his  statue's  place 

In  Time's  Valhalla  sure. 
Lo !  from  his  Neva's  banks  the  Scythian  Czar 

Stretches  to  thee  his  hand, 
Who,  with  the  pencil  of  the  Northern  star, 

Wrote  freedom  on  his  land. 


AFTER  ELECTION 


363 


And  he  whose  grave  is  holy  by  our  calm 

And  prairied  Sangamon, 
From  his  gaunt  hand  shall  drop  the  martyr's 
palm 

To  greet  thee  with  "  Well  done  !  " 

And  thou,  O  Earth,  with  smiles  thy  face  make 
sweet, 

And  let  thy  wail  be  stilled, 
To  hear  the  Muse  of  prophecy  repeat 

Her  promise  half  fulfilled. 
The  Voice  that  spake  at  Nazareth  speaks  still, 

No  sound  thereof  hath  died ; 
Alike  thy  hope  and  Heaven's  eternal  will 

Shall  yet  be  satisfied. 
The  years  are  slow,  the  vision  tarrieth  long, 

Arid  far  the  end  may  be ; 
But,  one  by  one,  the  fiends  of  ancient  wrong 

Go  out  and  leave  thee  free. 

1867. 


AFTER  ELECTION. 

The  day's  sharp  strife  is  ended  now, 
Our  work  is  done,  God  knoweth  how! 
As  on  the  thronged,  unrestful  town 
The  patience  of  the  moon  looks  down, 
I  wait  to  hear,  beside  the  wire, 
The  voices  of  its  tongues  of  fire. 

Slow,  doubtful,  faint,  they  seem  at  first : 
Be  strong,  my  heart,  to  know  the  worst ! 


364      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


Hark !  there  the  Alleghanies  spoke  ; 
That  sound  from  lake  and  prairie  broke, 
That  sunset-gun  of  triumph  rent 
The  silence  of  a  continent ! 

That  signal  from  Nebraska  sprung, 

This,  from  Nevada's  mountain  tongue ! 

Is  that  thy  answer,  strong  and  free, 

O  loyal  heart  of  Tennessee  ? 

What  strange,  glad  voice  is  that  which  calls 

From  Wagner's  grave  and  Sumter's  walls  ? 

From  Mississippi's  fountain-head 
A  sound  as  of  the  bison's  tread ! 
There  rustled  freedom's  Charter  Oak  ! 
In  that  wild  burst  the  Ozarks  spoke ! 
Cheer  answers  cheer  from  rise  to  set 
Of  sun.    We  have  a  country  yet ! 

The  praise,  O  God,  be  thine  alone ! 
Thou  givest  not  for  bread  a  stone ; 
Thou  hast  not  led  us  through  the  night 
To  blind  us  with  returning  light ; 
Not  through  the  furnace  have  we  passed, 
To  perish  at  its  mouth  at  last. 

O  night  of  peace,  thy  flight  restrain  ! 
November's  moon,  be  slow  to  wane  ! 
Shine  on  the  freedman's  cabin  floor, 
On  brows  of  prayer  a  blessing  pour ; 
And  give,  with  full  assurance  blest, 
The  weary  heart  of  Freedom  rest ! 
1868. 


DISARMAMENT 


365 


DISARMAMENT. 

"  Put  up  the  sword !  "    The  voice  of  Christ  once 
more 

Speaks,  in  the  pauses  of  the  cannon's  roar, 
O'er  fields  of  corn  by  fiery  sickles  reaped 
And  left  dry  ashes ;  over  trenches  heaped 
With  nameless  dead  ;  o'er  cities  starving  slow 
Under  a  rain  of  fire  ;  through  wards  of  woe 
Down  which  a  groaning  diapason  runs 
From  tortured  brothers,  husbands,  lovers,  sons 
Of  desolate  women  in  their  far-off  homes, 
Waiting  to  hear  the  step  that  never  comes  ! 
O  men  and  brothers  !  let  that  voice  be  heard. 
War  fails,  try  peace ;  put  up  the  useless  sword ! 

Fear  not  the  end.    There  is  a  story  told 

In  Eastern  tents,  when  autumn  nights  grow  cold, 

And  round  the  fire  the  Mongol  shepherds  sit 

With  grave  responses  listening  unto  it : 

Once,  on  the  errands  of  his  mercy  bent, 

Buddha,  the  holy  and  benevolent, 

Met  a  fell  monster,  huge  and  fierce  of  look, 

Whose  awful  voice  the  hills  and  forests  shook. 

"  O  son  of  peace !  "  the  giant  cried,  "  thy  fate 

Is  sealed  at  last,  and  love  shall  yield  to  hate." 

The  unarmed  Buddha  looking,  with  no  trace 

Of  fear  or  anger,  in  the  monster's  face, 

In  pity  said  :  "  Poor  fiend,  even  thee  I  love." 

Lo  !  as  he  spake  the  sky-tall  terror  sank 

To  hand-breadth  size ;  the  huge  abhorrence  shrank 

Into  the  form  and  fashion  of  a  dove ; 


366      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


And  where  the  thunder  of  its  rage  was  heard, 
Circling  above  him  sweetly  sang  the  bird : 
"  Hate  hath  no  harm  for  love,"  so  ran  the  song; 
"  And  peace  unweaponed  conquers  every  wrong !  " 
1871. 

THE  PROBLEM. 
I. 

Not  without  envy  Wealth  at  times  must  look 
On  their  brown  strength  who  wield  the  reaping- 
hook 

And   scythe,  or  at  the  forge-fire   shape  the 
plough 

Or  the  steel  harness  of  the  steeds  of  steam ; 

All  who,  by  skill  and  patience,  anyhow 
Make  service  noble,  and  the  earth  redeem 
From  savageness.    By  kingly  accolade 
Than    theirs    was   never   worthier  knighthood 
made. 

Well  for  them,  if,  while  demagogues  their  vain 
And  evil  counsels  proffer,  they  maintain 

Their  honest  manhood  unseduced,  and  wage 
No  war  with  Labor's  right  to  Labor's  gain 
Of  sweet  home-comfort,  rest  of  hand  and  brain, 

And  softer  pillow  for  the  head  of  Age. 

II. 

And  well  for  Gain  if  it  ungrudging  yields 
Labor  its  just  demand ;  and  well  for  Ease 
If  in  the  uses  of  its  own,  it  sees 


OUR  COUNTRY 


367 


No  wrong  to  him  who  tills  its  pleasant  fields 

And  spreads  the  table  of  its  luxuries. 
The  interests  of  the  rich  man  and  the  poor 
Are  one  and  same,  inseparable  evermore  ; 
And,  when  scant  wage  or  labor  fail  to  give 
Food,  shelter,  raiment,  wherewithal  to  live, 
Need  has  its  rights,  necessity  its  claim. 
Yea,  even  self-wrought  misery  and  shame 
Test  well  the  charity  suffering  long  and  kind. 
The  home-pressed  question  of  the  age  can  find 
No  answer  in  the  catch-words  of  the  blind 
Leaders  of  blind.    Solution  there  is  none 
Save  in  the  Golden  Kule  of  Christ  alone. 
1877. 

OUR  COUNTRY. 

Read  at  Woodstock,  Conn. ,  July  4, 1883. 

We  give  thy  natal  day  to  hope, 
O  Country  of  our  love  and  prayer ! 

Thy  way  is  down  no  fatal  slope, 
But  up  to  freer  sun  and  air. 

Tried  as  by  furnace-fires,  and  yet 
By  God's  grace  only  stronger  made, 

In  future  tasks  before  thee  set 

Thou  shalt  not  lack  the  old-time  aid. 

The  fathers  sleep,  but  men  remain 
As  wise,  as  true,  and  brave  as  they ; 

Why  count  the  loss  and  not  the  gain  ? 
The  best  is  that  we  have  to-day. 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


Whate'er  of  folly,  shame,  or  crime, 
Within  thy  mighty  bounds  transpires, 

With  speed  defying  space  and  time 
Comes  to  us  on  the  accusing  wires ; 

While  of  thy  wealth  of  noble  deeds, 
Thy  homes  of  peace,  thy  votes  unsold, 

The  love  that  pleads  for  human  needs, 
The  wrong  redressed,  but  half  is  told  ! 

We  read  each  felon's  chronicle, 

His  acts,  his  words,  his  gallows-mood  ; 

We  know  the  single  sinner  well 
And  not  the  nine  and  ninety  good. 

Yet  if,  on  daily  scandals  fed, 

We  seem  at  times  to  doubt  thy  worth, 
We  know  thee  still,  when  all  is  said, 

The  best  and  dearest  spot  on  earth. 

From  the  warm  Mexic  Gulf,  or  where 
Belted  with  flowers  Los  Angeles 

Basks  in  the  semi-tropic  air, 

To  where  Katahdin's  cedar  trees 

Are  dwarfed  and  bent  by  Northern  winds, 
Thy  plenty's  horn  is  yearly  filled ; 

Alone,  the  rounding  century  finds 
Thy  liberal  soil  by  free  hands  tilled. 

A  refuge  for  the  wronged  and  poor, 

Thy  generous  heart  has  borne  the  blame 

That,  with  them,  through  thy  open  door, 
The  old  world's  evil  outcasts  came. 


OUR  COUNTRY 


369 


But,  with  thy  just  and  equal  rule, 

And  labor's  need  and  breadth  of  lands, 

Free  press  and  rostrum,  church  and  school. 
Thy  sure,  if  slow,  transforming  hands 

Shall  mould  even  them  to  thy  design, 
Making  a  blessing  of  the  ban  ; 

And  Freedom's  chemistry  combine 
The  alien  elements  of  man. 

The  power  that  broke  their  prison  bar 
And  set  the  dusky  millions  free, 

And  welded  in  the  flame  of  war 
The  Union  fast  to  Liberty, 

Shall  it  not  deal  with  other  ills, 

Eedress  the  red  man's  grievance,  break 

The  Circean  cup  which  shames  and  kills. 
And  Labor  full  requital  make  ? 

Alone  to  such  as  fitly  bear 

Thy  civic  honors  bid  them  fall  ? 

And  call  thy  daughters  forth  to  share 
The  rights  and  duties  pledged  to  all  ? 

Give  every  child  his  right  of  school, 
Merge  private  greed  in  public  good, 

And  spare  a  treasury  overfull 
The  tax  upon  a  poor  man's  food  ? 

No  lack  was  in  thy  primal  stock, 
No  weakling  founders  builded  here  ; 

Thine  were  the  men  of  Plymouth  Rock, 
The  Huguenot  and  Cavalier  ; 

vol.  m. 


370       SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


And  they  whose  firm  endurance  gained 

The  freedom  of  the  souls  of  men, 
Whose  hands,  unstained  with  blood,  maintained 

The  swordless  commonwealth  of  Penn. 

And  thine  shall  be  the  power  of  all 

To  do  the  work  which  duty  bids, 
And  make  the  people's  council  hall 

As  lasting  as  the  Pyramids  ! 

Well  have  thy  later  years  made  good 
Thy  brave-said  word  a  century  back, 

The  pledge  of  human  brotherhood, 
The  equal  claim  of  white  and  black. 

That  word  still  echoes  round  the  world, 

And  all  who  hear  it  turn  to  thee, 
And  read  upon  thy  flag  unfurled 

The  prophecies  of  destiny. 

Thy  great  world-lesson  all  shall  learn, 
The  nations  in  thy  school  shall  sit, 

Earth's  farthest  mountain-tops  shall  burn 
With  watch-fires  from  thy  own  uplit. 

Great  without  seeking  to  be  great 
By  fraud  or  conquest,  rich  in  gold, 

But  richer  in  the  large  estate 

Of  virtue  which  thy  children  hold, 

With  peace  that  comes  of  purity 
And  strength  to  simple  justice  due, 

So  runs  our  loyal  dream  of  thee  ; 
God  of  our  fathers  !  make  it  true. 


ON  THE  BIG  HORN 


371 


O  Land  of  lands  !  to  thee  we  give 

Our  prayers,  our  hopes,  our  service  free ; 

For  thee  thy  sons  shall  nobly  live, 
And  at  thy  need  shall  die  for  thee ! 


ON  THE  BIG  HORN. 

In  the  disastrous  battle  on  the  Big  Horn  River,  in  which  Gen- 
eral Custer  and  his  entire  force  were  slain,  the  chief  Rain-in-the- 
Face  was  one  of  the  fiercest  leaders  of  the  Indians.  In  Longfel- 
low's poem  on  the  massacre,  these  lines  will  be  remembered :  — 

"  Revenge  !  "  cried  Rain-in-the-Face, 
"  Revenge  upon  all  the  race 

Of  the  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair  !  " 
And  the  mountains  dark  and  high 
From  their  crags  reechoed  the  cry 
Of  his  anger  and  despair. 

He  is  now  a  man  of  peace  ;  and  the  agent  at  Standing  Rock, 
Dakota,  writes,  September  28,  1886 :  "  Rain-in-the-Face  is  very- 
anxious  to  go  to  Hampton.  I  fear  he  is  too  old,  but  he  desires 
very  much  to  go."  The  Southern  Workman,  the  organ  of  General 
Armstrong's  Industrial  School  at  Hampton,  Va.,  says  in  a  late 
number :  — 

"Rain-in-the-Face  has  applied  before  to  come  to  Hampton,  but 
his  age  would  exclude  him  from  the  school  as  an  ordinary  student. 
He  has  shown  himself  very  much  in  earnest  about  it,  and  is  anxious, 
all  say,  to  learn  the  better  ways  of  life.  It  is  as  unusual  as  it  is 
striking  to  see  a  man  of  his  age,  and  one  who  has  had  such  an 
experience,  willing  to  give  up  the  old  way,  and  put  himself  in  the 
position  of  a  boy  and  a  student." 

The  years  are  but  half  a  score, 
And  the  war-whoop  sounds  no  more 

With  the  blast  of  bugles,  where 
Straight  into  a  slaughter  pen, 
With  his  doomed  three  hundred  men, 

Eode  the  chief  with  the  yellow  hair. 


372      SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


O  Hampton,  down  by  the  sea ! 
What  voice  is  beseeching  thee 

For  the  scholar's  lowliest  place  ? 
Can  this  be  the  voice  of  him 
Who  fought  on  the  Big  Horn's  rim  ? 

Can  this  be  Rain-in-the-Face  ? 

His  war-paint  is  washed  away, 
His  hands  have  forgotten  to  slay ; 

He  seeks  for  himself  and  his  race 
The  arts  of  peace  and  the  lore 
That  give  to  the  skilled  hand  more 

Than  the  spoils  of  war  and  chase. 

O  chief  of  the  Christ-like  school ! 
Can  the  zeal  of  thy  heart  grow  cool 

When  the  victor  scarred  with  fight 
Like  a  child  for  thy  guidance  craves, 
And  the  faces  of  hunters  and  braves 

Are  turning  to  thee  for  light  ? 

The  hatchet  lies  overgrown 
With  grass  by  the  Yellowstone, 

Wind  River  and  Paw  of  Bear ; 
And,  in  sign  that  foes  are  friends, 
Each  lodge  like  a  peace-pipe  sends 

Its  smoke  in  the  quiet  air. 

The  hands  that  have  done  the  wrong 
To  right  the  wronged  are  strong, 

And  the  voice  of  a  nation  saith : 
*'  Enough  of  the  war  of  swords, 
Enough  of  the  lying  words 

And  shame  of  a  broken  faith  !  " 


On  the  Big  Horn 


ON  THE  BIG  HORN 


373 


The  hills  that  have  watched  afar 
The  valleys  ablaze  with  war 

Shall  look  on  the  tasselled  corn  ; 
And  the  dust  of  the  grinded  grain, 
Instead  of  the  blood  of  the  slain, 

Shall  sprinkle  thy  banks,  Big  Horn ! 

The  Ute  and  the  wandering  Crow 
Shall  know  as  the  white  men  know, 

And  fare  as  the  white  men  fare  ; 
The  pale  and  the  red  shall  be  brothers, 
One's  rights  shall  be  as  another's, 

Home,  School,  and  House  of  Prayer ! 

O  mountains  that  climb  to  snow, 
O  river  winding  below, 

Through  meadows  by  war  once  trod, 
O  wild,  waste  lands  that  await 
The  harvest  exceeding  great, 

Break  forth  into  praise  of  God ! 

1887. 


NOTES 


Note  1,  page  18.  The  reader  may,  perhaps,  call  to  mind 
the  beautiful  sonnet  of  William  Wordsworth,  addressed  to 
Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  during  his  confinement  in  France. 

"  Toussaint  !  —  thou  most  unhappy  man  of  men  ! 

Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tends  his  plough 

Within  thy  hearing,  or  thou  liest  now 
Buried  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den ; 
O  miserable  chieftain  !  —  where  and  when 

Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?  —  Yet,  die  not,  do  thou 

Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow ; 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live  and  take  comfort.    Thou  hast  left  behind 

Powers  that  will  work  for  thee  ;  air,  earth,  and  skies,  — 
There 's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 

That  will  forget  thee ;  thou  hast  great  allies. 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 

And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind." 

Note  2,  page  67.  The  Northern  author  of  the  Congres- 
sional rule  against  receiving  petitions  of  the  people  on  the 
subject  of  Slavery. 

Note  3,  page  88.  There  was  at  the  time  when  this  poem 
was  written  an  Association  in  Liberty  County,  Georgia,  for 
the  religious  instruction  of  negroes.  One  of  their  annual 
reports  contains  an  address  by  the  Rev.  Josiah  Spry  Law,  in 
which  the  following  passage  occurs  :  "  There  is  a  growing 
mterest  in  this  community  in  the  religious  instruction  of  ne- 
groes. There  is  a  conviction  that  religious  instruction  pro- 
motes the  quiet  and  order  of  the  people,  and  the  pecuniary 
interest  of  the  owners." 

Note  4,  page  117.  The  book-establishment  of  the  Free- 
Will  Baptists  in  Dover  was  refused  the  act  of  incorporation 
by  the  New  Hampshire  Legislature,  for  the  reason  that  the 


376 


NOTES 


newspaper  organ  of  that  sect  and  its  leading  preachers 
favored  abolition. 

Note  5,  page  118.  The  senatorial  editor  of  the  Belknap 
Gazette  all  along  manifested  a  peculiar  horror  of  "  niggers  " 
and  "nigger  parties." 

Note  6,  page  118.  The  justice  before  whom  Elder  Storrs 
was  brought  for  preaching  abolition  on  a  writ  drawn  by  Hon. 
M.  N.,  Jr.,  of  Pittsfield.  The  sheriff  served  the  writ  while 
the  elder  was  praying. 

Note  7,  page  118.  The  academy  at  Canaan,  N.  H.,  re- 
ceived one  or  two  colored  scholars,  and  was  in  consequence 
dragged  off  into  a  swamp  by  Democratic  teams. 

Note  8,  page  119.  "  Papers  and  memorials  touching  the 
subject  of  slavery  shall  be  laid  on  the  table  without  reading, 
debate,  or  reference."  So  read  the  gag-law,  as  it  was  called, 
introduced  in  the  House  by  Mr.  Atherton. 

Note  9,  page  120.  The  Female  Anti-Slavery  Society,  at 
its  first  meeting  in  Concord,  was  assailed  with  stones  and 
brickbats. 

Note  10,  page  168.  The  election  of  Charles  Sumner  to 
the  United  States  Senate  "  followed  hard  upon  "  the  rendi- 
tion of  the  fugitive  Sims  by  the  United  States  officials  and 
the  armed  police  of  Boston. 

Note  11,  page  290.  For  the  idea  of  this  line,  I  am  in- 
debted to  Emerson,  in  his  inimitable  sonnet  to  the  Rho- 
dora,  — 

"  If  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being." 


